


All the King's horses | Part I & II

by do_androids_dream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Big Gay Love Story, Complicated Relationships, Crimes & Criminals, Falling In Love, First Time Blow Jobs, Gay Sex, Lambert - Freeform, M/M, Mentioned Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Modern AU, Mystery, NSFW, Roach, Slow Burn, Soap Opera, Vesemir - Freeform, some surprises because it's a mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 38,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27685052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/do_androids_dream/pseuds/do_androids_dream
Summary: Modern AU Emhyr x Geralt:When veterinarian Dr. Wolf is called to the estate of the mysterious, newly arrived Mr var Emreis, he has no idea that he will be attracted to his client in a strange way. Both may not be completely honest with each other, but the mutual attraction cannot be denied. Until things get complicated...
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 87
Kudos: 74





	1. Part I // I've been building this house made of gold

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles from ["House of Gold"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X4jmOPivM7U&feature=emb_title) by Atreyu. 
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/DreamAndroids) / [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/do-androids-dream-ao3acc)
> 
> New here? Check out my other stories, starting with ["Ride into Obsession".](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23357794/chapters/56667709)
> 
> Not beta-read this time, so all the strange choice of words and all mistakes are on me!

The house was not quite what Geralt had expected. He had heard that it had been abandoned for a long time, but he had never seen it. In fact, he had never penetrated so deep into this part of the forest, even though he had lived in Vizima for a few years now. Some of the locals had told him that someone had settled out there, but that was of no further interest to him unless that person had an animal. Geralt might not have been the most sociable guy - which made him hardly different from many other residents of the small town - but he had gradually gained their respect, and that was enough for him. After all, he was the only veterinarian within a radius of 50 miles. Furthermore, he had specialized in horses, and the area was quite known for horse breeding.  
  
A horse was ultimately why he now drove along the narrow forest path that had turned off the road a few minutes earlier. Geralt had been quite surprised when he had received a call that asked him to examine the mare of a certain Mr var Emreis. It was not only that he had been told this through the man’s secretary - this was a small town, people called each other by the first name, nobody was very formal about anything. Still, a cautious, sometimes suspicious trait prevailed among the people. So the stranger was talk of the town. Even if he was not interested in rumors, Geralt found it quite interesting to finally meet the mysterious man, whom the people talked about a lot, but nobody had apparently seen yet.  
For Geralt’s taste, he had chosen a strange place as his new home. A stately estate loomed in front of him at the end of the path - still in some distance, behind a high wall, but clearly visible through a barred gate. It was huge, and it emanated a kind of wealth that made Geralt wonder why only a muddy, narrow path led there. He had not even suspected that there was such a mansion out here; two-storied, in an elegant, if somewhat old-fashioned architectural style, probably from the late 19th century. The new resident had to be quite wealthy. Most of the area’s inhabitants were relatively simple country people whose "wealth" consisted of livestock - which promised a mostly secure, if modest, income out here.  
  
But Mr var Emreis had to have another source of income. Or maybe he had inherited the house. Preoccupied with these thoughts, Geralt finally stopped his off-road vehicle in front of the gate. He was about to get out when something stirred behind the entrance. A big, chunky guy that seemed to burst out of his suit any minute appeared behind the gate, opening it a crack. Then he stepped up to Geralt's car, knocking rudely on the window. Geralt was somewhat irritated but let the window down. Before he could say anything, the man growled, "The vet?"  
Geralt was not impressed by the rugged nature of the guy, obviously a security guard. Without a word, he pointed to his windshield, where his badge was clearly visible; the "V" with Aesculapius's staff. The guard just snorted, then said, "Keep going straight. Park in front of the house. Someone will pick you up there."  
  
Geralt preferred not to answer; he wordlessly started the car again and waited until the security guard had opened the gate wide. The path behind it was paved but had seen better days. This also applied to the house, as he could now see. It was still in relatively good condition, as far as he could tell, but somewhat neglected - which was no wonder, given that it had been vacant for so long. But whoever the new resident was, it was clear that this was a place where nobody had to think about how to make end’s meet.  
Geralt parked in front of the house and left the car. A double staircase with a curved banister led to a stately entrance door. Around the house, there were tall pine trees, behind which an extensive lawn could be spotted. The grounds seemed almost endless, and from here, Geralt could not see the wall that had enclosed the front gate. It was easy to imagine that there must have been plenty of room for stables somewhere behind the estate. In the end, the new resident with the foreign-sounding name might turn out to be a stable source of income.  
  
At that moment, the front door opened, and a small, bespectacled man - dressed in a dark suit, like the security guy - stepped out.  
"Dr. Wolf?" he asked as he slowly walked down the stairs and approached Geralt.  
"The same," Geralt replied friendly and stretched out his hand. "Mr var Emreis?"  
The other man glanced almost indignantly at the outstretched hand and ignored it deliberately.  
"Oh, no, no," he said then. "I am the secretary of Mr. var Emreis. We spoke on the phone."  
Geralt, somewhat irritated, pulled back his hand and asked, "Well, where is the horse in question?  
The secretary nodded and replied, "Please follow me."  
He led Geralt around the house, which stretched surprisingly far back. _How many rooms does this thing have?_ Geralt asked himself, astonished. These were probably more rooms than even an extended family needed - and so far, there was no sign of a family here. Not even a car had been parked in front of the house. Well, there was probably a garage he hadn't seen. Still, everything was extremely quiet. The whole place seemed almost lifeless. If it weren't for the security guard at the gate and this secretary here, walking with quick steps along a halfway maintained gravel path, Geralt would have sworn that nobody lived here.  
  
Behind the house, the path gradually became more comprehensive, and a large garden stretched out there. However, it consisted almost entirely of trees and a somewhat puny lawn, which looked fresh but a little too trimmed. One could still see that this once might have been a beautiful place; marked by marble statues, elegant bird baths, now overgrown rosebushes, and once probably lush flower beds. With a little work, all this could be restored.  
They bent around a turn, and now a paved square rose up directly in front of them, with spacious-looking stables at its center. Unlike some other things he had seen here before, Geralt found that the stables were in extraordinarily good condition. They were much younger than the house itself, perhaps built by the last occupant. There were several spacious boxes inside the building, yet it was the home to only one horse. That was an unusually beautiful white horse - a real one, not a Cremello, as it was sometimes seen in the area, commonly mistakenly as a white horse by the townsfolk.  
  
"A fine animal," said Geralt, although it seemed a bit superfluous to him to state the obvious. But the secretary had been silent the whole time, and the entire thing was somehow unusual.  
"Certainly," the man replied. "As I told you on the phone, it doesn't really want to feed since Mr var Emreis moved here. You see, it is his only horse at the moment, and understandably he is quite attached to it. We will pay the agreed price for the examination, and any further treatment costs will not be a problem."  
The secretary expressed this with such a blasé manner that Geralt slowly became annoyed.  
"Where is Mr var Emreis?" he asked.  
The secretary blinked, obviously stunned.  
"Pardon?"  
"I asked where he is."  
Geralt had not intended the threatening undertone in his voice, but his words seemed to reach the other person in the same way. Geralt was clearly taller than he was, of wiry muscularity and with a somewhat unusally appearance - the kind of man who didn't have to appear brawny to make it clear that he was to be reckoned with.  
"In what sense is this relevant to your work?" asked the secretary cautiously.  
Geralt noisily expelled air, a sign of increasing impatience.  
"That's his horse," he then explained slowly, as if talking to someone who couldn't really follow him. "It may be that the move is partly responsible for its condition. But I do not make a diagnosis without taking all circumstances into account. And I do not examine a horse without the presence of its owner."  
"Why?" the secretary dared to ask. "It's an animal, it's well treated, why..."  
Geralt crossed his arms and interrupted the man coolly, "Who is the veterinarian here, you or me? You know very well that you won't find another one in the further vicinity. And you probably know my reputation. Your employer seems to care enough about his animal that he was smart enough to turn to an expert. And this expert wants to talk to him personally because you obviously don't know anything about horses."  
  
Something about Geralt's expression seemed to worry the secretary. Or maybe it convinced him; it was hard to tell. Anyway, he swallowed visibly and then replied coolly, "I'll see what I can do. But perhaps you would be so kind as to take a look at the horse while I..."  
"That can be arranged," Geralt returned stiffly. The secretary nodded. Leaving, he turned around, and his movement had something offended about it.  



	2. Yeah I pushed through the rain and the cold

The white horse snorted - maybe a little curious, maybe a little disparaging - as Geralt approached it carefully. One look revealed to him that it was a mare. Her color was unusually evenly bright, a flawless pure breed. She must have cost her owner a fortune. When Geralt looked around, his suspicion was confirmed that the equipment of the stable as well as the accessories he could recognize met the highest standards, but were nevertheless carefully chosen. This was undoubtedly not var Emreis' first horse. The man seemed to know something about horses - or he had a bunch of other servants who took care of it. However, there was no stable master or groom to be seen.  
The mare looked at him with alert eyes. She held her head above the half-height gate that closed her box and seemed to follow his movements attentively. Slowly he raised one hand, and she held still while he stroked her head.  
  
"Good girl," he praised her while carefully reaching into her muzzle from the side. With a gentle pull on her tongue, he made sure she opened it so that he could inspect her teeth. Everything was fine with that, he noted, and the first look at her body made it clear to him that she was wiry, but by no means malnourished. Either the relocation hadn't been that long ago so that her alleged poor appetite was not yet showing any effects. Or the secretary had exaggerated. This was another reason why Geralt absolutely had wanted to talk to the owner personally.  
  
"Her name is Cirilla," a deep voice suddenly resounded behind Geralt.  
He turned around, a little surprised that he had not heard the other man coming. This had to be the owner of the horse, the mysterious Mr var Emreis. He was so different from the two subordinates Geralt had met that it was striking. He, too, wore a dark suit, but it sat on him as if it had been tailored to his body - and even though Geralt had little understanding of fine fabrics, that might indeed have been the case. He was tall and had a very straight posture, which gave him the impression of being above things. His black hair with a hint of greyish temples was almost shoulder-length and combed back; it made him appear somewhat austere. At the same time, it emphasized his angular features and the distinctive nose. He was attractive in a strangely severe way. When Geralt turned to him, something flashed in his eyes, but he didn't move a muscle when he said, "Not quite what I expected."  
  
Geralt remained completely calm at these words. He knew exactly that his appearance caused astonishment - and not everyone knew how to express it in such a way.  
"A pigment disorder," he said, pointing cursorily at his hair. What was remarkable about it was not the fact that, although he was no longer the youngest, he wore it long and tied at the back of his head, but that it was completely white. Therefore, it was understandable that his counterpart had initially assumed that he was meeting an older man - especially since he was said to have had many years of experience with horses. But perhaps the remark was also referring to the prominent scar on his left cheek. That would have been quite blunt, almost rude.  
The man seemed to notice for himself that it was to be understood that way, and he stretched out a hand. "Excuse me, that was probably not the best way to introduce yourself. Emhyr var Emreis. So, you are the horse whisperer?"  
Geralt smiled thinly. He heard this remark more often than he wanted to. Nevertheless, he took the other man's hand and squeezed it briefly.  
"I prefer veterinary, but yes, I am Dr. Wolf. An unusual name for a horse, by the way," he then said.   
Var Emreis came closer to the box of his mare and slowly stroked her head.  
"I named her after my daughter. She died many years ago together with her mother in an accident," he explained frankly.  
"I'm sorry, I didn't know..." Geralt began, embarrassed and strangely touched.  
The other one made an impatient hand movement.  
"I lived in the city for many years and had neither the time nor the opportunity to keep horses," he continued. "My family always had studs. When the opportunity arose to acquire this property, it was clear to me that I wanted to resume breeding. The mare here is just the beginning. She had been abroad before, and I assumed that the move didn't suit her very well. In any case, she does not feed very well."  
  
He had no reason to tell Geralt all this, and for a brief moment, he almost seemed surprised that he had done it. But his facial expression was hard to read. If he had been annoyed by the request to go to the stables and meet the vet personally, there was nothing to be noticed of it now.  
Geralt, who still had the feeling that he had spoiled the mood somehow, quickly replied, "I'll have a look at her."  
Although he was used to animal owners looking over his shoulder - sometimes nervous, sometimes curious - Geralt found var Emreis' presence unpleasant for some reason. The man did not say a word; he kept sufficient distance and did not obstruct Geralt while he examined the mare. And yet, there was something about him that gave the impression that he could get agitated if he was disappointed. Something very business-like, if not almost majestic - Geralt inwardly scolded himself for this ridiculous idea. He examined the mare thoroughly from head to hoof. Finally, he stood up, wiped the latex gloves off his hands, and said, while stuffing them into the pockets of his jeans, "She is perfectly healthy."  
"But?"  
Geralt looked at var Emreis attentively. The man had a strange impatience about him, and he seemed to expect that he had the right to be offered a simple solution. Certainly, he was used to having his orders followed immediately. Probably he had never experienced things that were out of his control. The answer was actually quite simple, but Geralt suspected that the other person would not feel that way.  
"There's nothing wrong with her, except that she's missing sufficient exercise. She is a lively, intelligent horse, the kind that is not satisfied with a little longeing. She is bored; she has no reason to show appetite."

Var Emreis remained silent for a moment. The gaze that grazed Geralt was both judgmental and curious. Then he replied, sounding almost amused, "As far as I know, we are paying you the usual hourly wage for this examination. That is your diagnosis? That the horse is just _bored_?"  
Geralt gave the man a sharp look.  
"How many times did you ride her this week?"  
"I haven't hired a stable boy yet," was the evasive reply.  
"It's your horse; you should exercise her regularly. I think you know that too."  
"I am very busy," replied var Emreis.  
"The horse also needs to be kept busy," Geralt returned unmoved. "By the way, I'm sure you can afford my _hourly wage_."  
With these words, Geralt walked past the dark-haired man and added, "Call my practice if the animal is actually sick. But don't wait until it is - the mare is in an excellent condition, and my diagnosis is correct."  
He was already halfway out of the stable when he heard the dark voice again. Var Emreis did not have to raise it; the strangely commanding sound of his voice was enough to make him understood even when he spoke comparatively softly.  
  
"Wait."  
Geralt counted to five inwardly before he turned around again and looked at the other questioningly.   
"If this is truly your diagnosis... what do you think about accompanying me? Tomorrow is Sunday, your practice is certainly closed, and I'm sure you have a horse. Ride out with me and watch Cirilla. If she really only lacks exercise, shouldn't there be a quick change in her behavior?"  
"It is not done with a single ride," Geralt replied, frowning.  
"But you have a horse?"  
"Of course I have a horse, but..."  
"Well, it's a deal, then. After breakfast, say around 11? Come over here, the estate is quite big, we'll find a place to go for a ride."  
The look in the other man's eyes was almost piercing when he said this, but as soon as he said it, he turned around and walked back calmly towards the big house.  
  
Stunned, Geralt stayed behind at the entrance of the stables and stared after him. Had he just agreed to an appointment for a ride - against his will?  



	3. Daylight sang from the sky

Whether it was because he hadn't been paid in advance and wanted to make sure he would get his pay (which seemed ridiculous) or for some other reason - Geralt actually arrived at var Emreis' estate the next morning around 11 am. He had found the man's behavior rather impudent and had been almost furious on his way back to the practice. Several times, he had picked up his phone, always very close to calling and telling the rich prick what he thought of his proposal. But he had not done so. And this morning, during the drive to the estate with his own mare in the trailer behind him - by the way a damned effort for a _ride_ \- Geralt realized that it was obviously curiosity above all that drove him.  
  
It was true, he was not particularly interested in the rumors that circulated in town. Usually, he was not even particularly interested in his fellow men - his interest remained in their animals and how they treated them. Nevertheless, he possessed a curious talent for arousing others' interest, which was probably due to his appearance for a large part. The scar and not least the white hair and beard seemed to give him something daring, which many people strangely liked. Therefore, there were quite a handful of people among the locals who had not let themselves be turned away by his reserved and sometimes rough manner and whom he was thus allowed to call his friends. If one looked at it more closely, they too had their peculiarities - which was perhaps why he liked them. Geralt spent a lot of time with the pharmacist, a walking encyclopedia when it came to the different bat species in the area. Or his receptionist, who formed a small band together with her husband - a well-known womanizer known in town - and often sang loudly at the office. So he had to admit that there were one or two people who had succeeded in arousing his interest. And strangely enough, Emhyr var Emreis had been one of them since yesterday.  
  
What exactly it was, Geralt could not grasp in his thoughts. The man was bossy, impatient and rude, so much had already been shown by the few minutes they had spent together. On the other hand, he cared about this horse: the fact that he had named it after his dead daughter seemed to be more than a nostalgic quirk to Geralt. The mare was well-groomed, and Geralt had not failed to notice var Emreis' tenderness when he had stroked her. Even if the horse marked the beginning of a new breeding career, it was not a mere investment. So, Geralt could easily convince himself that he was driven to actually show up at the estate again because the other man may have been better with animals than humans. It would be a distinctiveness which with he was familiar.  
  
Emhyr var Emreis was walking straight down the stairs when Geralt carefully led his horse out of the trailer. He only saw the man out of the corner of his eye, but at that moment, his walk seemed to resemble more of a stride. Geralt couldn't help but think once more that it looked almost majestic - even though var Emreis wore much more informal clothes today. Nevertheless, his riding suit was elegant and undoubtedly expensive. In one hand, he was holding an old-fashioned-looking cap, which probably hid modern safety under its retro look.  
"A beautiful animal," he remarked instead of a greeting. Apparently, he tried to make up for yesterday's remarks with selected politeness today, although the lie was all too obvious. Geralt did not choose his horses for beauty.  
"What's her name?"  
"Roach," Geralt answered briefly while he followed var Emreis to the stables. At least he seemed to have surprised the man with this answer - he gave him a wry look.  
"After the fish or the vermin?" he asked, and in turn, that surprised Geralt, who could hide it less well.  
"No one had ever asked me that before," he admitted.  
"Really?"  
Geralt shrugged his shoulders.  
"The fish does not occur in the local waters," he finally replied, almost reluctantly. "Most people are outraged that the _poor horse_ is named after an insect."  
Emhyr var Emreis nodded thoughtfully. He even had a predominantly severe expression on his face - did he ever smile?  
  
He did, as Geralt was about to learn some time later.  
The property was enormously large, and as it turned out, even a piece of the adjacent forest was part of it. Up to there, meadows were stretching for miles, nearly inviting a rider to gallop. And var Emreis was obviously willing to exhaust his mare's abilities. Soon after they were in the open country, he drove her to a faster pace.  
"Keep up," he called to Geralt, who could only shake his head - first, the guy let it lack of exercise for his animal, and then he couldn't get enough of it. Still, Geralt had to admit that the area was ideal for a little race. Soon the two horses were just shooting along, and that's when Geralt noticed the smile on his client's face. He enjoyed the ride, and Geralt had to admit that he felt the same way. Besides, var Emreis was an excellent rider, and it was a pleasure to watch him handle the mare. He did not apply a single unnecessary thigh pressure, held the reins loose or tightly depending on the situation, and he sat in the saddle with a relaxation that he had not radiated yesterday.  
  
When they later returned to the stable and rubbed the horses - an activity that var Emreis didn't seem to mind, which surprised Geralt a little - the man asked almost casually, "So? Is she worth her money?"  
"I'm not a horse breeder."  
"I trust in your expertise."  
Geralt looked at him calmly.  
"You want to know if I'm worth my money."  
The look he got in return was as calm as his own. Not disparaging, not surprised. Geralt had expressed a fact, and his client did not deny it.  
"Very well," Geralt replied. "The mare is strong and healthy. Do you see how her eyes shine? She enjoyed the ride. She was bored, just like I said."  
A quick look at Cirilla confirmed his words: while her owner was still rubbing her, her muzzle impatiently searched for the food that was waiting for her.  
"She will make an excellent breeding horse. If you're thinking of racing - she's a bit too reckless for that. Also, the tendons on her right hind leg are not strong enough. She could get problems sooner or later if she is trained hard."  
"This is not intended," replied var Emreis. "You think she should have frequent discharges?"  
"Definitely."  
"Next Sunday, same time? In the meantime, I will, of course, try to get her some exercise until then. A groom should arrive soon."  
Geralt stared at him in amazement.  
"I'm a veterinarian," he said.  
Var Emreis' gaze appeared amused.  
"Yes, that's why I hired you, and I obviously made a good choice."  
Geralt refrained from pointing out that this choice had obviously been made by his secretary.  
"I take care of sick animals," Geralt tried again, but even this message did not seem to get through.  
"I pay your usual hourly wage. And by the way, you'd be doing me a favor."  
Geralt looked at his client in disbelief.  
"You intend to pay me to move your horse on Sundays?"  
Var Emreis frowned.  
"No, I want you to accompany me," he said. "You're a slow wit for a professional."  
"I am not an escort service," Geralt returned.  
"What makes you think I need one? Besides, with the money you're making, your wife can spare you for an hour or two."  
  
Geralt's words may have been rather boorish. Still, the other man's reply showed him that var Emreis was way ahead of him, given his keen powers of observation and quick-witted answers. He could clearly see that Geralt was not wearing a ring. Geralt had maneuvered himself into this mess: assuming that his counterpart had signaled a certain non-professional interest with his offer, it was now up to him to reveal something of his private life with his answer.  
"Divorced," he growled against his will.  
"And obviously unbound," var Emreis stated bluntly. "Well, my offer stands."  
Geralt felt the blood rise to his face. He turned around wordlessly and left - and only when he was finally back in his car, he noticed that he still held the harrowing brush in his hand.


	4. Gone is the wandering soul

Strange as it may seem, Geralt decided to accept the order. Although Sunday was indeed his day off, it was not as if he was pursuing particularly many leisure activities. His ex-wife, Yennefer, had always said that he lived for his work, and at some point, he had to admit that she was right about that. He loved this work; he had struggled hard to get this far. And yes, maybe he got along better with animals than with people. Still, he certainly didn't suffer from boredom - in the end, the reason he agreed to the rides was just money. As a veterinarian, one did not become rich. Geralt would never have refused the treatment of an animal if one of the country's people could not pay for it immediately - or in the end, only in kind. He got along, but a little extra on the side didn't hurt. It was easy money, and he enjoyed the rides. What he thought about the company in which these rides took place, well - he was not sure for a while. Emhyr var Emreis never tried to engage him in conversation, which he welcomed; when they talked, it was almost always about horses, occasionally other animals. Var Emreis also knew the one or other thing about hunting dogs, which did not surprise Geralt.  
  
Nevertheless, the man remained an enigma to him. He was mostly aloof, sometimes even brusque. He quickly lost patience, especially with his secretary, which the poor fellow always accepted in an extremely stoic manner. The stableman he had hired made a decent impression, so the horse was still well looked after. During the rides, var Emreis seemed almost unrestrained. Although impeccable for a rider, his posture was much more relaxed than in the presence of others.  
All in all, Geralt got used to the Sunday rides, even to their almost ritualistic procedures. Var Emreis always waited for him at the entrance and accompanied him while Geralt led his horse to the stables. They hardly exchanged two sentences on the way. Indeed, the horses greeted each other more enthusiastically as soon as they saw each other. Even after that, Geralt's client took over the lead - which was not surprising, since these were his properties after all. But it revealed a lot about him. His whole body language, his carefully chosen words - everything about him made it clear that he was used to guiding people. To _command_. He was obviously a man who got what he wanted, one way or another.  
During their rides, the places varied - they had numerous meadows and part of the forest to choose from - but never the fact that var Emreis dictated speed and duration. Which was his right; after all, he was the one who paid Geralt. These excursions' uniform character had something as compulsive as it was calming, at least Geralt felt that way. He was used to letting the day come - after all, he never knew who would call him for which sick animal. There had been only one time in his life where he had had to submit to an exceptionally commanded procedure, and he didn't like to think back. This had nothing to do with it at all, and yet he secretly enjoyed the particular routine his Sundays had become.  
  
Therefore he was surprised when he arrived at the estate at the agreed time without being awaited one day. Not even the secretary was to be seen, who occasionally showed up - even on a Sunday! - to deliver seemingly important news to his employer in person. Geralt glanced to the front door, but following an impulse, he decided against it. Instead, as usual, he loaded Roach from the trailer and led her to the stables - after all, he knew the way by now as if in his sleep.  
  
His instincts rarely betrayed him, and in fact, he met the landowner in the stable. When var Emreis saw him, he glanced irritated at his wristwatch ( _definitely real gold_ , Geralt thought).  
"It seems to me that I have forgotten the time."  
"Doesn't it fit today? We can postpone it," Geralt replied, noting that the thought almost disappointed him strangely.  
"No," var Emreis returned with one of his typical impatient hand movements.  
So they rode. On Geralt, var Emreis made a somewhat aggressive impression that day. He drove his horse to gallop earlier than usual; he did not spare the mare. Cirilla did not seem to mind, on the contrary. Once again, Geralt's original verdict was confirmed: the animal loved movement and really came alive on these Sundays. Nevertheless, Geralt found that the other man almost overdid it that day. He was about to make a remark when var Emreis drove the mare to a daring jump over a rickety willow fence. Not only did this fence obviously mark his own country's border, Cirilla was not a jumper. She mastered the jump, but her right hind leg touched the fence, and she almost stumbled. Her owner showed a cool head and his natural talent by skillfully intercepting her and making sure that neither fell.  
  
Geralt stopped Roach abruptly and jumped off her back.  
"Have you gone mad?" he yelled, and at that moment, he didn't care that he was yelling at the man who paid him.  
Var Emreis did not answer. He had dismounted and inspected Cirilla's hind leg.  
"Look at that," he urged, and there was something in his voice that made Geralt listen up. Immediately he inspected the horse, only to discover a little later, relieved, "Just a small scratch."  
Then he looked at Emreis seriously, and although he did not yell at him again, there was blatant anger in his voice.  
"Have you ever seen a horse that tore its tendon? Some have to stay in the stable for a year. Some never recover from it. Sure, that doesn't diminish their use as broodmares, but I advise you to never do that again."  
The threatening undertone in his words did not escape him, but he did not care.  
Var Emreis looked at him with a little too much composure, as Geralt found. He also thought that a little bit of it seemed fake, but it was hard to tell.  
"That was not my intention," the man replied, and Geralt understood that this was the highest form of apology he could expect. Not that he had anything to expect at all in this respect - it wasn't his horse. But he was by no means indifferent when the owner was riding it to injury.  
  
Suddenly he noticed how close the other man's face was to his own - in his anger, he had obviously let his words follow a step too many.  
Strange, that despite his anger, which was not yet completely gone, he noticed that var Emreis' eyes had an unusual color. He had never come so close to him before or had not paid attention to it, but his eyes were amber. There was a reason why he noticed this, that he even had a word for it: Geralt's eyes had the same color. It was rare; he had never seen anybody who shared this attribute with him. Most inhabitants of the area had steel-blue eyes.  
Geralt, who had a certain hypersensitivity to sounds and smells since childhood, noticed an enormous amount of detail about his client in those few seconds before he withdrew, unpleasantly touched. They confused him: the bitter smell of pine needles as well as the man's breath, which he could feel on his own skin. It was still a little fast from the ride and perhaps also from the commotion.  
The second he took a step back, var Emreis said in an unusually quiet tone of voice, "You have lost your hair tie." Briefly, he raised his hand as if he intended to reach into Geralt's hair, which actually fell wildly over his shoulders. Geralt had the feeling that he almost retreated in slow motion. The moment seemed to drag on, and he didn't know anymore if he really felt it as uncomfortable as he told himself.  
  
Yet he could not hide his surprise when var Emreis suddenly said, "Stay for dinner."


	5. As I fought through the flames

His attempts to refuse were passed over as usual. In the end - he did not know precisely how it had happened - Geralt sat together with the master of the house in a lavishly decorated, wood-paneled dining room. The room was much too large for var Emreis, who obviously lived alone. Possibly the furnishings were still a legacy of his predecessor; in any case, the dining table was huge, it could seat at least ten people. They sat opposite each other at one end, and Geralt looked directly from his seat onto the oversized fireplace. After a sumptuous meal prepared by an invisible cook and served by a stiff guy whom Geralt had never seen before, var Emreis poured brandy for them. Geralt found this almost clichéd rich but secretly had to admit that he had never tasted such good alcohol. In fact, he, who was used to little more than an occasional beer after work, was on the verge of becoming drunk. In the end, it was good for the mood, which had been tense after the ride for several reasons.  
  
His eyes fell on the painting above the fireplace. It showed a somewhat defiant looking little girl in a frilly dress. The picture seemed strangely out of place - the style did not match the interior, and something about the child's eyes was almost disturbing to Geralt, which he attributed to the alcohol.  
"My daughter," his host suddenly remarked. "I had the painting made from the last photograph I possessed of her. The painter did not quite capture her, I'm afraid."  
"She doesn't look very happy," Geralt remarked. At the same moment, he would have rather bitten his tongue, feeling his remark sounded quite heartless.  
"Back then, she was not," replied var Emreis calmly. "She hated dresses."  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I have a daughter myself," Geralt said.  
"Oh?"  
In the eyes of his counterpart, interest sparkled.  
"She's adopted," Geralt added. "She wasn't a baby anymore, but she was still quite young when she came to us. To think we would have lost her at that age... My remark was thoughtless, Mr var Emreis, I'm sorry."  
"That was all long ago, and I'd appreciate it if you'd call me Emhyr."  
  
Geralt remained silent in amazement. He thought that it might have been a long time ago, but at least the dead daughter still played a role in the man's life - why else would he name his horse after her and hang the admittedly hideous painting here? On the other hand, the offer to call the other one by his first name took him by surprise. Such things were not uncommon in the country, and Geralt had to admit that this was how he dealt with most of his clients. For some reason, var Emreis seemed to be in a completely different league. Nevertheless, he would have had to invent an excuse to reject the matter somewhat politely - and he was not very good at that.  
"All right," he finally replied, albeit a bit clunky. "If you give up Dr. Wolf in return. In the city, everyone calls me Geralt. People here don't give much thought to doctorates, especially not among veterinarians."  
"It seems to me that in this respect, they are hardly different from big city people, though perhaps for other reasons," Emhyr returned with a wit. Finally he added, almost casually, "Today is her death anniversary. Well, the day she was declared dead."  
Geralt was taken aback by this statement, for which there was no appropriate response. It remained everything var Emreis - _Emhyr_ \- said about it, and as puzzling as the statement was, it was too personal for Geralt to question it further.  
  
All the more surprising were the man's next words.  
"Tell me something about yourself," he said as he raised his glass in a gesture that appeared almost imperious. It suited him. As he sat there, he seemed nearly as relaxed as during their regular rides. He had crossed his legs, and in the now subdued light, his eyes had taken on a strange sparkle.  
It must have been the unusual quantity and strength of the brandy that led Geralt to an almost cheeky answer.  
"I get to ask a personal question first, then you get an answer from me," he said.  
"A game?" Emhyr replied with an amused undertone and leaned forward. "You don't seem like a gambler. All right, ask."  
Surprised by the quick approval, Geralt had to think for a moment.  
"What exactly is your business?" he then asked.  
Var Emreis lifted the corners of his mouth.  
"That is your _personal_ question?“  
He leaned back in his chair, obviously enjoying the situation. After a sip from his glass, he answered, "Transportation of hazardous materials. Where did you grow up?"  
Perhaps the man thought this was an equally innocuous question, but Geralt decided to answer it equally evasively.  
"In a boarding school for boys."  
The answer was not entirely a lie, nor was it entirely true, and he felt that Emhyr's response had been the same.  
  
The answer seemed to amuse his counterpart even more. Abruptly he rose and came around the table, only to lean on it right next to Geralt. The gesture seemed so unusual to him that Geralt wondered if Emhyr had also had a little too much to drink.  
"A boarding school for boys, is it?" he repeated.  
"Is that so unusual?" Geralt asked defensively.  
"I just wonder if you are flirting with me," Emhyr returned.  
"Pardon, what?"  
Geralt's surprise was so apparent that Emhyr now actually showed a genuine smile - for the first time outside their rides. It may have been a little overbearing, a bit too smug, but it was real.  
"You mean that wasn't a subtle hint? Like the hair?"  
"The what?"  
Geralt involuntarily reached into his hair, which still fell openly onto his shoulders.  
"I lost my hairband," he returned, admittedly a little helplessly. "Just a moment. Are you trying to turn me on?"  
"Would that really be unsuccessful?" Emhyr asked. His voice had taken on a strange undertone.  
"You were married," Geralt said, confused and overwhelmed by the whole situation. Nevertheless, he could not deny that he felt something else. Something he hadn't felt for a very long time - at least not in this constellation. Something that he did not want to name, but which was also difficult to push back. Emhyr now stood very close to him, their legs almost touching, and the mere thought that they might actually be doing that didn't make him feel uncomfortable, strangely enough.  
  
"I would have expected you to have a little more imagination. I wonder, are you pretending to be that innocent, or are you, in fact?"  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
Emhyr did not answer. He just looked at him for a very long moment, and behind his sudden furrowed forehead, it seemed to work. Then finally, he had obviously come to a decision.  
"Come, I want to show you something," he said curtly, nimbly pushing himself off the table and moving toward the door.  
Geralt became increasingly confused.  
"What do you want to show me?"  
"Come on," the answer came with the usual impatience, and Geralt, as if pulled by invisible strings, noticed that he stood up and followed Emhyr.


	6. Your eyes, your eyes, your infinite eyes

They crossed a long corridor, on whose walls one could still see that paintings had once hung here. But unlike the dining room, Emhyr had either not bothered or had not yet had time to change them. Geralt was surprised that he noticed these details at all - not only had his sudden rising made it clear that he actually had drunk too much. There was also a somewhat unreal feeling based solely on the fact that he was following a man who had just more or less admitted that he didn't mind seducing him. As he followed Emhyr up the stairs, Geralt wondered whether he was outraged or flattered. Although he was aware that people found the scar on his face more attractive than he actually liked, he had also made the experience that it might seem almost repulsive to some. Especially in combination with his hair's unusual color. Geralt was conscious that this gave rise to certain self-doubts. Still, because these were not the only things that had not gone quite as planned in his life, his distrust of flattery and openly displayed sexual attraction was undeniable.  
  
They left the stairs behind and entered another long corridor from which many doors led off on the upper floor. The house was clearly too large for a single man, even if he accommodated all his servants here. Did he prefer it as a status symbol, or did it have personal meaning? Geralt was torn from his thoughts when Emhyr finally opened one of the doors. He followed him into the room, but after one step, he stopped as if rooted to the floor.  
  
"You wanted to show me your _bedroom_?“ he asked, not without a hint of sarcasm.  
For the surprisingly bright room actually turned out to be a tasteful, modern, yet altogether relatively sparsely furnished bedroom with a large bed as the focal point.  
"Would you have preferred the dinner table?"  
Once again, Geralt was astounded by the brazen and direct answer. But he couldn't say whether it repulsed or attracted him. The door behind him was still open. He simply had to take a step back. He knew that if he left now, he would not come back. This was another offer - one that went beyond their previous agreement, one that could significantly change their business relationship. If he left, that too was an answer, and he knew that his counterpart would accept it. He would probably just overlook it and expect Geralt to show up the next Sunday at the usual time, but he wouldn't do that. Apart from that, he had the feeling that he did not _want_ to leave. But he wanted to be sure that this offer was made with the right motives - if such a thing existed here at all because he still didn't see through Emhyr. And he knew that this was part of the appeal.  
  
"This is not what I get paid for," he finally said.  
For a moment, Emhyr's eyes flashed and he almost sounded angry when he replied, "If you consider this _sexual harassment_ , I will apologize and admit that I misinterpreted certain signals."  
Geralt remained silent for a long moment, looked into the eyes with the rare color he shared, trying to read in them.  
"I have not been harassed yet," he then replied with a wry grin.  
As if to underline his words - and perhaps also so as not to appear too passive - he reached behind and slammed the door. What drove him, he did not know. A feeling had taken possession of him that was only partly attributable to alcohol. He didn't get a chance to think about it, and he didn't even want to. That was precisely the point.  
When exactly had Emhyr come so close to him that he now suddenly felt his soft lips on his own? The feeling was strange - it had been a long time, a very long time since he had kissed a man. No, he corrected himself, it was not _strange_ ; it was uncommon. The kiss was gentle, probing, a test. Geralt still didn't know which signals he was supposed to have sent out or how his client had even come up with the idea that he might find him attractive. But he did, even though he hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. In a way that was unfamiliar, but at the same time seemed very appealing to him.  
  
Geralt closed his eyes almost involuntarily when he felt a foreign tongue dividing his lips to explore his mouth. Two hands, whose warmth he could feel even through his jeans, lay on his butt. Now he knew what he felt so unfamiliar about: that someone else was taking control. And he realized something else. He hadn't had sex for a long time, so this felt unusual; but most of all, he hadn't been _touched_ for a long time, certainly not like this. So, maybe it was just because he felt a little touch-starved, yet, he began to devote himself not only to the kiss but to the whole situation. His head turned off, his body took over; involuntarily, he seemed to stretch out to these hands.  
The kiss seemed to last endlessly as if time was expanding. Simultaneously, the grip on Geralt's bottom became tighter, while a hand slowly slid up his back and grabbed his neck. Then the tongue in his mouth seemed to become more pressing; the time for careful caressing seemed over. Now, all this resembled rather a foretaste of what would inevitably follow - if Geralt would not retreat now. But he did not. Instead, he put his own hands on the back of the man who performed a dance in his mouth, which clearly affected other parts of his body.  
  
He opened his eyes when Emhyr's lips suddenly withdrew - it was almost disappointing. A slight smile lay on this mouth, which Geralt suddenly found extremely attractive. Then Emhyr grabbed his arm and pulled him around, and however it happened, suddenly he was sitting on the bed. Soon the warm hands were back; he felt them at his sides for a moment. A heartbeat later, his sweater was pulled over his head, and he was sitting there with his upper body naked. Emhyr stood in front of him, almost as if he were enthroned above him. Yet, he looked at him without any outside impulse. That was something else Geralt wasn't used to, and he felt a slight nervousness rise in him - because he wanted Emhyr to say something; he wanted him to break the silence, wanted to be sure that what the man saw didn't repel him. For he was familiar with such a reaction, and he could deal with it: with the glances that looked at him astonished, disturbed, or - rarely, but present - almost disgusted. But in this case, he did not want to see that in those amber eyes. Surprisingly, there was no rejection in them either. Emhyr looked at him as if he was looking at a painting, trying to understand the artist behind it. But the scars on Geralt's upper body were certainly not quaint. There was nothing to understand about them except the simple fact that things had to be done and sometimes required a price.  
  
"One day, I might ask about this," Emhyr said, and this mysterious announcement was like a glimpse of the future that sent a shiver down Geralt's spine. Now, anyway, it didn't seem to be that day, and wordlessly - perhaps to catch up - Emhyr stripped off the shirt he had changed into after the ride. Surprisingly, even on this well-toned body, a scar was visible; an elongated mark at the right costal arch level. Geralt, who once again saw what he did not want to see but could not deny due to his experience, thought fleetingly that this looked like a stab wound. Another secret of the man he could hardly see through. Emhyr put one hand on Geralt's chest, very lightly. With an almost careless movement, he pushed him so that he fell backward onto the bed. Then, suddenly, he was above him, leaning on the bed next to his shoulders, his knees next to Geralt's hips. For a moment, he just looked at him, seemed to search in his eyes. Emhyr, too, must have certainly noticed the similarity in their eye color; his gaze was deep and penetrating.  
  
Now he kissed him again, even more passionately than before, as if he was sure that now all doubts had been removed and all barriers shattered. This was not quite the case: Geralt was still confused and clearly drunk. But it was hard to deny that he enjoyed not only the kiss but also the feeling of naked skin on his own. He had missed this feeling, and he enjoyed that everything about it was exciting. That he hardly knew this man; that it was a _man_ lying half on top of him, kissing him. What effect this had on him, and that this effect did not escape Emhyr, who in the meantime had begun to caress his upper body slowly. His hand was softer than his tongue as if it had yet to earn his confirmation. It gently stroked across his chest, encircled a nipple, stroked deeper slowly, and slid over a scar in his side. With a tiny lifting of the corners of his mouth, which Geralt clearly felt on his own lips, he stroked fleetingly over the bulge in Geralt's jeans. But shortly thereafter, his hand was in another place; it seemed to wander almost feverishly over his skin, as if it wanted to grasp as much of his body as possible at once.  
  
Although hardly anything had happened until now, Geralt found the tension almost unbearable. His own right hand shot up, grabbed Emhyr's neck, and now he returned the kiss with a nearly grim determination. His counterpart did not seem to have expected this - for a second, Geralt thought he would withdraw, that he was so convinced he had to keep control that he would not allow this to happen. But it was not like that. The moment of surprise passed, and Emhyr's hand became as bold as Geralt's tongue. Now he deliberately reached out, embracing the hardness through the fabric, as if this was a test - also of whether he would receive approval for it. The approval came unusually. A sound rose from Geralt's throat that echoed directly into Emhyr's mouth, a mixture of growling and moaning. This was enough for Emhyr. Impatiently, he tugged at the pants as if he had forgotten how to open them; until he remembered and then managed to slip them over Geralt's legs. There, they met a new obstacle - for he was still wearing his boots.  
  
Geralt hastily tried to pull them off without losing contact with Emhyr's mouth, and for a moment, they looked like a couple from a cheap porn movie, tearing their clothes off. They both seemed to be aware of this, or at least both had a similar thought - Geralt grinned, maybe a little silly, and an amused sparkle appeared in Emhyr's eyes. He parted from Geralt's lips, and his teeth gently brushed across his earlobe as he whispered, "We have time."  
But meanwhile, they were both completely naked, and again Emhyr lay half on top of him. Geralt thought if this was really true - that they had time enough -, because he had the feeling he couldn't wait anymore. Emhyr seemed to sense this as his movements became bolder. His lips seemed to be everywhere, his hands reaching for Geralt's ass, clawing at it. Geralt's hands did not remain still either; they explored the foreign body. But there was something possessive about the grip on his butt, and for the first time, he realized what it meant. He searched for the gaze of the other man and whispered, almost shyly, "It's been a while."  
The few words meant more than he actually said, and that alone embarrassed him, but fortunately, Emhyr did not respond. Instead, he kissed him again, perhaps a little more tender now, and for a while he was content to just caress him; lying on him, enjoying the heavier breath he caused - _that_ was his answer.  
  
By now, they had rummaged through half the bed, with nothing but ever more passionate kisses and gentle touches that promised more and yet seemed unwilling to reveal everything. If it had been some sort of strategy that Emhyr was pursuing, it worked: Geralt sensed that not only the alcohol had long since gone to his head. He had been seized by arousal that needed to be quenched after all this. Was it strange? Sort of, still. But did he want it? Very much so.  
Yet, he flinched briefly as Emhyr moved his legs apart and, with one hand, clasped his member tightly. More kisses followed, probably meant to calm him down, but the chance for that had long passed. As much as he liked the kisses, the hot feeling of this tongue in his mouth, the soft lips that explored his, he longed for this touch that he now received. Emhyr's thumb stroked slowly but somehow demanding over his exposed glans. The second hand suddenly enclosed his balls, held them, and gently massaged them with light palm pressure movements. Geralt, who hadn't even noticed that he had retained his breath, expelled it noisily, and it sounded almost like a sigh. Again a little smile appeared on the other man's face, causing extremely contradictory feelings in Geralt.  
  
But in the end, there was not much room for thoughts. For a moment, the lips detached from his; all touching ceased, and Geralt opened his eyes. Emhyr rummaged around the bed's headboard, and Geralt had to turn his head to see that a narrow board formed a shelf between the furniture and the wall. On top of it, next to a filigree lamp, was an elegant, elongated wooden box. A reasonably discreet place to store condoms, he thought at first glance, but he was wrong. When he realized what exactly Emhyr was getting out of it, he closed his eyes again, although for a moment he wondered why it was this of all things that almost made him blush with shame. Only seconds later, the warm hand was back on his cock; light and wet; a completely new feeling, a different kind of friction. But all that caressing and teasing, the thumb stroking all over the shaft, the sometimes firm and sometimes gentle grip: all that was only a foretaste. Geralt forced himself to open his eyes; he wanted to see it, see everything. Emhyr lay beside him, one elbow propped up, observing him while his movements never ceased. He said nothing; it was not necessary. He would get his approval here and now, or not, but words were not required. And then the hand slid deeper, and again Geralt expelled the air, but now it sounded more like a gasp. Emhyr changed position, taking the other hand to help push Geralt's legs a little further apart. While Geralt was still struggling with the fact that he felt overly exposed and yet wanted nothing more than to surrender completely, he felt a finger circling his opening. Then the mouth was back, and the next kiss was a clear foretaste. Emhyr's tongue thrust into his mouth while his finger slowly probed its way forward.  
  
The feeling was indescribable, like a fever attack running through him, cold and hot at the same time. Geralt resisted the urge to tense up; instead, his body seemed to react to the touch all by itself, and he pushed himself towards it. Then, hot and unfamiliar, the finger was inside him. After a short time, it performed a dance similar to the tongue in his mouth. Once again, Emhyr's lips parted from his own, only to whisper close to his ear, "You like it."  
It was not a question, but a simple statement, perhaps expressed with a hint of arrogance. Yet, at the same time, it was a kind of promise of what was to come. And there was no denying that he liked it. His whole body reacted to the touch, and he wanted more. Finally, somehow and sometime, Emhyr knelt before him, and his voice was dark with desire as he said, in an almost commanding tone, "Look at me."  
Had Geralt closed his eyes again? His sense of time had completely disappeared. Emhyr was holding his own cock in his hand, shining from some kind of lubricant, and _damn big on top of that_ , Geralt thought fleetingly.  
  
"If that's not what you want...," said Emhyr, a final opportunity that Geralt had long since stopped needing. He reached out one hand, grabbed the man, pulled him down, forced his mouth open with his tongue. It was the expected answer.


	7. Now you save me

For once, Emhyr's facial expression, unlike their other encounters, could be read quite clearly: he seemed confident that he had Geralt where he wanted him. He was right about that, and not only because his body covered the other one's or his knees fixed the other one's thighs to the mattress. He had him because Geralt wanted this himself, without really knowing why. Since their first meeting, there had been something that had attracted and repulsed him in equal measure. Even now, this feeling had not wholly disappeared. Curiosity paired with pure lust, but behind it lay astonishment and also a little shame. And yet, a part of him seemed to have known from the beginning that he could not escape this man. This part was striving for the kisses and touches; this part was stretching his body impatiently towards him.  
  
Once again, the hands that had previously wandered almost restlessly over his body withdrew. The inevitable, somehow awkward moment, when a condom was brought into action, followed and passed without the tension disappearing. When Emhyr appeared above him again, he looked at him once more, scrutinizing him, gazing deep into his eyes - was this really the same man who would yell at his secretary impatiently when something was not going his way? His mouth wandered to Geralt's throat, single-mindedly finding a spot that Geralt had not even suspected was sensitive. Thus, Geralt almost missed the irresistible moment of first penetration. Brief pain melted under excitement and passion that only continued to build. Nearly everything faded away under the tongue that stroked across his throat, yet Emhyr groped his way agonizingly slowly. Geralt felt every single second of it, and his hands shot up, clinging to the other's back in a jerky way, finally clawing into his butt, trying to speed things up.  
  
"Slowly," the already familiar voice, even deeper with passion, murmured at his ear.  
"No," he rasped defiantly, which only caused the first, albeit small, laughter to rise from the other man's throat. Geralt already felt him deep inside himself, and pressure, warmth and the first hint of friction were so overwhelming that he was almost painfully aware of his own hardness. Yet his body, almost without conscious control, continued to reach out to all these feelings. He still wanted more, to feel him even deeper, so he reached under his own knees, spread his legs even further, trying to open, trying to _receive_. With an almost careless movement, Emhyr grabbed Geralt's wrists, held them both tight, and shook his head. "When I say slow, I mean slow," he muttered with a focused expression. Finally, after seconds that dragged on like minutes, he filled Geralt completely. For a while, both simply enjoyed this feeling.  
  
Then he withdrew a bit, and Geralt gasped at the completely new sensation. Emhyr let go of his wrists, leaned on the bed, and looked at him again, almost disparagingly. His eyes were shining, and Geralt felt that he reflected himself in those eyes. If he could actually have seen himself in them, he would have found exactly the same shine. Then Emhyr began to move, slowly, concentrated; he pushed forward and pulled back, an ancient story, an ancient dance, and yet always new.  
"Oh my god," Geralt gasped. Now that his hands were free, he reached for Emhyr again, pulled him into another kiss, this time dominating. But Emhyr's concentration could not be affected. He allowed the kiss to happen, the impatient lips, the almost agitated tongue; as he slowly, gently, yet steadily slipped into Geralt's warmth.  
The alcohol might have disinhibited him, taken away his doubts, but this caused all the dams to burst. Geralt leaned into the movements; he couldn't get enough of it.  
"Oh fuck," he gasped, almost whining, unable to prevent sounds coming out of his mouth that he did not know he was able to produce.  
"So, you are the loud kind," whispered Emhyr. "Still waters run deep, don't they?"  
"Oh God, stop talking," Geralt groaned, and his hands were now back on Emhyr's butt; they seemed to push and pull at the same time.  
"What would you prefer?" muttered Emhyr, close to his mouth, suddenly sucking in Geralt's lower lip.  
"Just fuck me," Geralt groaned against his own will, without knowing whether he still had any control over it.  
"Loud and vulgar. I like it."  
  
And then, finally, he stopped talking. Now, there was nothing but feelings, friction, skin on skin. The pace increased, taking Geralt's breath away. Had he ever felt anything like that? Maybe once, a long time ago; but not with a man, and even now he wondered where this unlikely attraction had come from. But the time of doubt was over, even that of restraint. This was not his first time, nor did it feel like it. The passion was too great for that, the certainty of what he liked and wanted was too clear. He liked, and he wanted this, all of it: the chopped off breath on his ear, his own fingernails clawing into the other's ass, the tightness, the warmth. And yet, it was a first time after all, _their_ first time. And it was perfect as it was; without the urge for dramatic changes of position, without the desire to confess exotic kinks to each other. This did not make it less exciting, just as new, foreign skin is always exciting.  
  
He was close, he could feel it, and although he wanted it to last, his hand clasped his own hard-on. The urge to let go of all this, to let go of himself, became irresistible. He felt Emhyr's eyes on him, now much darker, which was not only due to the light of the setting sun shining vaguely through the half-closed curtains.  
"Not quite as shy as expected," Emhyr remarked, slightly out of breath, slowing his motions. "Show me."  
His voice had acquired a half teasing, half demanding undertone; _his bedroom voice_ , Geralt thought, and it made him shiver. All the restraints had evaporated somewhere on the way. So he showed him.  
He closed his eyes and touched himself, and he could feel Emhyr's desiring glances almost as clearly as his own hand enclosing his cock. His glans was wet, and he moistened his hand with his own precum before he tried to copy Emhyr's pace. The latter seemed to understand this immediately, and his own movements became faster once again, more challenging. It seemed like a strange kind of competition, though it was clear there would be only winners afterward. Even Emhyr was panting now, not holding back - it was very much like on horseback, some kind of freedom. But Geralt was actually _loud_ , though he did not recognize this himself, with his blood roaring in his ears. Yet, deep groans rose from his throat, mixed with occasional, chopped off utterings of "Yes" and "Like that", that might as well be meant for himself as they were for the other man.  
When he came, he came forceful, almost painful, with an only half-heartedly muffled scream. He shivered and twitched, and Emhyr stopped for a moment just to watch him. Then, wordlessly, his hands grabbed Geralt's thighs, positioning him once more, only to thrust a steady rhythm inside him. His own release occurred without a sound, but his grip became a little too hard for some seconds. One more kiss, a sweaty forehead against his own, and Geralt still did not open his eyes - because then, it would finally be over.


	8. I was so lost, broken and torn

Maybe, he thought after a while, there was actually nothing left that could surprise him. Perhaps he had expected that his client - _Emhyr_ , he forced himself to think - would now send him away. Or that he himself, confused and too drunk, would leave. But none of this happened. They just lay there, on those expensive, cool sheets, now sweaty and crumpled. Still naked, still exposed, but that was true for both of them. Emhyr's meticulous hairstyle had dissolved. Now there were small, frizzy, black curls that made his angular face soft - which was probably why he never showed them. It was a miracle to Geralt why the man chose to show them to _him_. Why he still lay there, watching him.  
  
The mood was strange, at least he felt it that way - he was not used to sex between more or less strangers, and he understood neither himself nor this man. Perhaps it was still the alcohol that spoke from him when he now, completely incoherently, said, "You had a family."  
The quiet snort from Emhyr's mouth might very well have been a laugh.  
"That still bothers you? Well, yes. I had a family because it was expected of me. The heir to such a large family fortune never follows his own desires. Yet, I loved my daughter like nothing else in the world. Did you love your wife?"  
Geralt had neither expected such an honest answer nor such a blunt counter-question. Still, less had he expected to answer without hesitation.  
"Very much," he said. "The first true love, you might say."  
"And yet you are obviously attracted to men, too, and find that confusing."  
That was a simple fact, and Geralt could not deny the truth in it.  
"This was not your first time and not the last," Emhyr then said, and the promise in it was exciting even in his slightly exhausted state.  
"Tell me about your daughter."  
The sudden change of topic was bewildering, but at least it was a topic without thin ice.  
  
Geralt crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling for a moment, lost in thought, before answering.  
"My wife could not have children. The adoption procedure was surprisingly difficult, and we were offered to apply as foster parents first. I was actually against it. I had seen too many people emotionally attached to an animal that they knew would never fully belong to them."  
"A curious comparison," Emhyr interjected.  
Geralt shrugged.  
"Perhaps," he admitted, "but I had no other comparison. My wife wanted a child much more than I did, and I had doubts. Finally, one evening, someone came to our door with this kid, a little girl. She was disheveled and, frankly, not very pretty - her expression was defiant, and she didn't seem a bit scared, even though she was basically a toddler. She could hardly speak, which was why no one had ever found out exactly what had happened to her. Back then, we lived in a big city on the coast, and she had been found in the city center, all alone; no one seemed to miss her. The police interfered, but since she could not contribute anything herself, the investigation went nowhere. Although she was so small, she seemed strangely angry. Perhaps she understood much more than she could express. She had been in an orphanage for a while, and... well, she reminded me of my time at the... boarding school."  
  
"Must have been a strange boarding school," Emhyr remarked with that sparkle in his eyes, which Geralt now believed was expressing amusement. But this was a confession for another day.  
"Anyway," he continued, "she was a wild little thing until we found out that she was enormously eager to learn. My wife taught her to read very early on, and I... Well, let's just say that when she broke the nose of a much older boy at school a few years later who tried to beat up a first-grader, it was somehow my fault."  
"You taught her to fight?" Emhyr asked incredulously.  
"I taught her to defend herself," Geralt replied evasively. "She's an adult now, running a kickboxing school, so it can't have been all that wrong."  
"You are a strange man."  
"You're the right man to say this," Geralt returned. Grinning, he closed his eyes.  
  
The next time he opened them, the morning sun was about to send its first rays through the curtains. Geralt blinked. A slight throbbing behind his forehead was the final proof that he had drunk too much the night before. He had not expected to fall asleep here. Confused, he looked around. He lay under a thin blanket that had wrapped itself around his legs while he was sleeping. Next to him lay Emhyr, his head buried deep in a pillow, slightly snoring, which Geralt found strangely touching. It had been a long time since Geralt had woken up next to someone else, and never before next to anyone with whom he had a business relationship. Would this still be valid now? Could he continue to get paid by a man he had slept with? The thoughts intensified his headaches, and he began to rummage around in the large bed uncomfortably. The movement woke Emhyr, who - strangely enough - did not wake up slowly. He suddenly opened his eyes and immediately seemed fully alert. _Almost like a predator,_ Geralt thought. _Or a soldier_. He didn't like either.  
  
"We fell asleep," was the first thing the other man said.  
"Obviously," Geralt returned dryly.  
"This is not good."  
Emhyr literally jumped out of bed and started looking for his clothes; then he seemed to remember that he was in his own bedroom, and he disappeared hastily behind a door on one of the walls.  
Geralt frowned at him.  
Emhyr's still slightly curly head briefly reappeared in the opening, and he said impatiently, "It's Monday. I'm sure you have work to do today." Then he disappeared again into the adjoining room.  
It seemed to Geralt like an inelegant kick-out, and somehow he had not expected this. Then again, what could he have expected? If he had been told yesterday morning that he would spread his legs in the evening for a man who paid him to go _riding_ , he would have laughed and thought it was the plot of a porn movie.  
Without a word, he got up, collected his clothes scattered on the floor, but he did not bother to put them on here and now. Naked as he was, he disappeared from the room and looked for the way down. At the stairs, he threw his clothes on the floor for a moment, slipped into his underwear and jeans, found that he had forgotten his socks and put on his boots without them. He put on his sweater while running down the stairs, and left the mansion without looking back.


	9. And forgot all the pain that I've known

The week went by as usual, with the most exciting event being a calf's birth in a neighboring village. The animals in town appeared to be healthy, so the regular preventive examinations determined Geralt's daily routine. Everything seemed normal, although enriched with still highly contradictory feelings. Of these, shame prevailed. Not because of what they had done - that had been good, honest, and damn hot sex. It was rather that he still could not understand why he had gotten involved. Deep within him, the feeling grew that the other man had interpreted his rights as his employer too broadly - and that he had allowed this to happen was the reason for Geralt's discomfort. Moreover, the fact that he had gotten involved with a man in the first place was still gnawing at him.  
  
Granted, it hadn't been the first time, but it was something he had long dismissed as some kind of juvenile episode. Had there been one or the other man in his life whom he had found attractive? Sure, as everyone else did - a movie actor maybe, or some other unattainable guy whose looks or demeanor make a string sound in you. But the same applied to women. Then he had married, and for some years there had been no one else interesting or attractive to him. And after the divorce... well, fleeting affairs. With women, because that was what seemed right. Now, suddenly, everything seemed different, the cards shuffled anew. A forgotten passion had broken out again, but it confused him. Everything confused him, especially Emhyr's strange behavior.  
  
By Wednesday at the latest, he was already determined to cancel the next Sunday ride without comment. He would simply not show up. As far as he was concerned, this strange business relationship was over. Geralt had never been thrown out by anyone before, and if that was not a clear sign, then he didn't know any. He believed very much that Emhyr had also liked what had happened. That had been obvious enough. Had he cultivated his own feelings of guilt when he had dismissed him so rudely? Geralt scolded himself inwardly because he now also began to look for excuses for this ruffian. Who had not even thought it necessary to call him. But then again, why should he? As far as that was concerned, his thoughts were one big chaos, and only the constant focus on his work kept him from getting lost in it.  
  
On Wednesday evening, his private mobile phone started ringing. Geralt got startled, hastily grabbing for the remote control of the TV he had turned on as a distraction. The phone lay on the coffee table, and for a moment, he just stared at it as if he was almost afraid to pick it up. He did not recognize the number on the display. Only a few people possessed his private number. Certainly not _Emhyr_ , and yet there was a tiny part of Geralt hoping it was him. Eventually, he had let it ring long enough, and it seemed clear that the caller would not give up. So he finally picked up the phone and pressed the green button.  
"Yes?" he said, reserved and rude at the same time.  
"Geralt?"  
The low voice of an older man. The surreal feeling of receiving a call from the past.  
"Geralt, is that you? I have a new phone, I'm still trying to figure out how to transfer my contacts... Listen, if you're not Geralt, now would be the opportunity to clarify this. In case I dialed the wrong number. It's only polite."  
No doubt.  
"Vesemir? It's been a long time…"  
For a moment, there was silence at the other end.  
"From time to time, I like to hear what my old protégés are doing," the older man eventually replied.  
"Unusually nostalgic of you," Geralt replied, and he could not prevent his voice from sounding a bit snappy.  
"Can't an old man be nostalgic?"  
"You've always been an old man. What's up?"  
  
Again, there was a moment of silence. Geralt could clearly imagine the other's face, the slightly furrowed, always solemn visage of a man who - with full intention - had loaded up many worries and yet was constantly complaining about them. In this respect, Vesemir was perhaps indeed like a real father. At least he was the closest thing to it.  
"You remember Lambert?" Vesemir finally asked.  
Geralt sighed.  
"What is this, a memory of the good old days? I haven't heard from him in years."  
"He's in trouble, Geralt."  
This time Geralt kept silent; for so long that he was sure that the old man on the other end of the line was about to sound a confused _"Hello? Hello?“_.  
Before that happened, Geralt answered in a firm voice, "Why do you think I would care?"  
Now it was up to his interlocutor to sigh.  
"You're not as tough as you act, Geralt. Don't you think I wouldn't have noticed every time you had stood up for his nonsense? That you took the blame often enough when it was actually Lambert who did something wrong?"  
"I have caused enough trouble myself," Geralt replied, much softer than he actually wanted to.  
"This is true."  
Again there was a pause, then the old man carefully continued, "Of all my protégés, you three have always been the closest, you, Lambert and Eskel. And the latter was the most reasonable of you all."  
"He was so reasonable that he threw himself into a senseless war and died for a country that had nothing on him," Geralt countered. His voice resounded much more anger than it was appropriate for the years that had passed in the meantime.  
"You did that, too," Vesemir reminded him. "You have always followed him. But you survived."  
  
That was really nothing Geralt wanted to be reminded of.  
"I don't need this now," he said quietly.  
"These guilty feelings are only in your own head," the old man replied mercilessly. "Forget that and think of the living. Do you think I enjoy being reminded after all these years that only one of you three leads a hunky-dory life?"  
"Is this about your professional reputation?"  
"I am retired."  
"Then what is it?"  
Again, Vesemir sighed.  
"Once a probation assistant, always a probation assistant, I guess," he replied. "All my cases are important to me, Geralt, even if you may not believe it. Certainly, there may be a feeling of having failed personally. But I have never been one to bury my head in the sand. Lambert has once again gotten involved with people who give him nothing but trouble."  
"Or he gives them. Why are you telling me this?"  
"Because you're the only one who can talk some sense into him, Geralt."  
"I thought that was your job."  
"I'm retired."  
  
Geralt took a deep breath. Meanwhile, he had started walking up and down in his living room, phone in hand, as he always did when he was angry or nervous. He caught himself in the act, stopped at the window pointing to the small pasture behind his house, and watched his horse grazing peacefully there, unaware of what was going on inside. For some reason, the sight calmed him.  
"I don't think I want to have anything to do with this," he said into the phone.  
"You still live in this dump, don't you? Vizima or whatever?"  
"It's not a _dump,_ " Geralt reluctantly contradicted.  
"Well, at least he's close by. He works as a bouncer in a club in a neighboring town. Only 40 miles."  
_Bouncer?_ Geralt thought. Lambert may have always been difficult, but he deserved better than that.  
Still, he said, "That suits him. Why don't you just leave him alone?"  
"Geralt," the old man replied insistently, "all I ask for is a short conversation. You have always been more than friends. You were like brothers, all three of you. I know you have family, but didn't you ever feel like they were part of it?"  
_Maybe in the past_ , Geralt thought, but he didn't say it. The truth behind these words burned like an old wound.  
"Fine," he finally said, reluctantly and without knowing why, but he did. Apparently, he was just hopelessly easy to convince to do things he didn't want to do. Or something he didn't want to admit to himself that he wanted to do.  
"I'll call him."  
"I'd rather you talk to him in person."  
Geralt closed his eyes briefly and counted to five in his mind.  
"All right," he replied grudgingly. "What's the name of this club?"


	10. And burned through the violence inside my mind

He set off that very evening. Not because he was looking forward to the encounter. In that respect, his feelings had always been mixed. It was true that they had once been very close, all three of them. But that was a part of the past that Geralt would have liked to forget. It was more likely that he wanted to get it over with quickly. Geralt was not the kind of person to postpone things, no matter how unpleasant they might seem. It was not too far away, and if Lambert actually worked there, he would probably be most likely to be found in the evening. Geralt didn't think that he might have a day off. He was thinking of the Lambert he knew, the one he remembered - and that one had been constantly broke. At the same time, he had never shied away from work, though perhaps often for the wrong reasons. Geralt trusted his instinct, which had never betrayed him before, and his instinct told him Lambert would be there.  
  
He was right. As soon as he drove into the club's parking lot, he could see the familiar figure in front of the entrance. The club seemed nothing special, maybe a little cheap; the door was under a shrill, colorful, semicircular awning. In front of it stood a muscular guy with dark, receding hair, dressed in black tracksuit pants and an equally black windbreaker with the club's logo. He had not changed at all, Geralt thought. Especially when it came to the expression on his face. Lambert almost always looked gloomy. He always seemed to be somehow angry with the world, and he only laughed when he was drunk. He had been all too often in the past, which is why he was always getting himself into trouble. Himself, and also Geralt and Eskel, who both for some reason went along with every nonsense. _So, sweep in front of your own door,_ Geralt thought and got out of the car.  
  
Lambert had always been an attentive observer. The street in front of the club was busy, and the parking lot was also active. And yet Geralt could not be overlooked. The hair, the scar, the whole appearance... he could hardly deny that he did not look like the typical vet. But in a place like this, this could only be an advantage. The surprise was clearly visible on Lambert's face, and then he grinned broadly - proving that Geralt might have been a little biased about him after all. Or maybe too much time had already passed.  
He shouted, "Geralt!" as soon as the latter had approached him with a few steps. "You're the last person I expected to find in a joint like this."  
Now Geralt was with him, and - a force of habit, a nostalgic quirk - he stretched out his arm, and Lambert grabbed him and hugged him briefly but firmly.  
"Listen, you got a date here or what?"  
Geralt frowned.  
"What makes you think so?"  
"Anyway, I just mean - you don't want to come in here, either with a girl or alone. Listen, if you felt like a drink tonight, there are better places."  
"You work here," Geralt said. "How does that go along with keeping people from going in?"  
Lambert gestured deprecatingly.  
"Oh, you know how it is. Someone like me has to be satisfied with what he gets - and sometimes that's a shithole. Listen, let's have a drink. No, better yet, let’s go to my place; I'll fix us something to eat."  
"You only know how to cook noodles. What about your job?"  
"So what, you like my noodles," Lambert replied. "Wait a minute."  
He disappeared for a moment behind the club's front door. When he returned, he had changed the jacket with the logo for a worn out, old leather jacket with some Iron Maiden patches instead.  
"I'll just leave my bike here," he said. "Let's take your car."  
"You still have a motorcycle? That's gonna kill you one day," Geralt said on the way to the car.  
"I bet you still go on horseback, without a helmet. It remains to be seen which one of us will be killed first."  
  
Lambert described the way to a small residential area outside the city - a rather run-down corner, but probably the best he could afford. His apartment had a kitchenette, and while Geralt sat down on a sofa, Lambert started handling pots.  
"You're right, it's not enough for more than spaghetti, but at least I can make them very well, in honor of my ancestors."  
"You have no idea who your ancestors were, Lambert."  
Lambert shrugged.  
"To me, they were always southern spaghetti kings."  
Maybe he actually mastered only this one dish, but quite well, and for a while, they ate and drank and exchanged stories.  
"Sucks that you got divorced," Lambert remarked.  
"It was a long time ago."  
"I have a girlfriend," Lambert replied. "You'll never guess - she's a cop."  
"Come on," Geralt said, stunned. Lambert threw his fork on the plate in amusement - _still no table manners_ , Geralt thought - and replied, "Yes, who would have thought that I would follow you and get involved with the other side of the law."  
"Then she should have a good influence on you," Geralt returned. "To be honest, I heard otherwise."  
  
Lambert's face took on a closed expression almost instantly. Closed and suspicious.  
"Who told you that?" he asked.  
Geralt sighed. He had hoped that there was nothing to the whole thing. Lambert had been friendly, almost open-minded. He had made a nearly happy impression on him. Did he really have a girlfriend who was a cop? But in the end, this reaction only confirmed that there was something to it. Lambert was easier to see through than he would have liked to believe.  
"Vesemir called me."  
Lambert's face darkened. Now that was clearly trouble. He slammed the beer bottle in his hand on the table.  
"The old codger called you? I actually thought it was a coincidence, you showing up at the club tonight… I really believed that you wouldn't try to play big brother this time."  
  
"I'm just doing the old man a favor," Geralt replied evasively.  
"Oh yeah? And what reason would you have to do that?"  
Geralt remained silent. He knew exactly what the other one meant. Neither of them had good memories of their youth, and Lambert still seemed to believe that this was Vesemirs fault. On the other hand, Geralt had come to the conclusion over the years that he had been to blame for his problems himself. It had been Vesemir's job to help them, but it had been easy to see him as some kind of enemy. As the one who was on the other side. Someone you could never trust completely - even if you desperately wanted to.  
  
"So there is something to it?" he asked instead of an answer. "Are you in trouble, Lambert?"  
The other man snorted contemptuously.  
"No more than usual," he then claimed, but his eyes had taken on a glow that Geralt knew too well. "I can't believe that after all these years, you're on his side, Geralt. The old geezer always had his favorites, didn't he? But I don't need him or you to watch over me. You can tell him that he should slowly retire. I don't need a parole officer. It's none of his business anymore."  
Suddenly he stood up.  
"I think you'd better leave now."  
"Lambert..."  
Lambert grimly pulled a face. _He closes up like an oyster,_ Geralt thought. _As always. Nothing has changed at all._ Suddenly he felt tired, and he wondered why he had gotten involved in this at all. What could he say? What could he do? Lambert had always done his own thing.  
"Come back when you are actually interested in how I am," Lambert said. Geralt realized that he had lost that battle, and he stood up.  
"I am interested in it," he interjected quietly. He took one last look at his old companion, then he left.  
  
On his drive back, he pondered again why he had done this to himself in the first place. He was probably just too soft, and his appearance - as frightening as it might seem to some people - could not distract from it. He had no idea what he was going to tell Vesemir, but in the end, it was really none of his business what Lambert was doing with his life. Only that now that he had been reminded of it again, he was not indifferent after all.  
It was already shortly after midnight when he returned at his home. Contrary to his habit, he had not taken his practice mobile with him. That was not really his style - because even if he had already left when his consultation hours were long over, an emergency call could come in at any time. The unexpected call from the past had probably confused him more than he was prepared to admit.  
The phone was lying in the living room, and Geralt cursed softly when he saw the display flashing. In fact, he had missed a call. He pressed the number of his mailbox and quickly thought about who might have called - the calf was born, the stallion of the farmer from the neighboring village had long since recovered...  
  
Geralt froze when he heard the voice of the caller.  
It was Emhyr.


	11. My heart, my heart

It was ridiculous, but Geralt had to listen to the call twice. The first time, he seemed to pay attention only to the voice; that dark, slowly familiar tone, calm and seemingly without any emotion. Why did it affect him so strangely? He took a look at the time of the call. Just after he had left. Again this strange pricking in his stomach.  
Then he concentrated on what was said.  
"Geralt? I know it is unusually late, but Cirilla is acting strange. She seems to be in pain. I would be very grateful if you could take a look at this."  
It was a very brief message, which suited Emhyr, but Geralt, who replayed it for a third time, noticed things he didn't want to notice. That he had said "Geralt," not "Dr. Wolf," for example. That he himself had called, not his secretary. But also that he called about the horse, not for any other reason. In the end, that was also decisive. A sick animal in the middle of the night was normal for him. No matter who his client was. And although it was already after midnight and the call was a few hours ago, Geralt grabbed his car keys again and left his house.  
  
Maybe he drove a little over the speed limit. Perhaps even faster than necessary; after all, he didn't know what was going on at all. That Emhyr believed the horse was in pain didn't mean anything. Even a horse expert could not always judge that. Geralt had his phone with him, but he did not call again to ask if he was still appreciated at this time. Or to make sure whether the problem - if there was one at all - still existed. Maybe he felt a little guilty because he had forgotten his practice phone at home when he went to Lambert's house. After all, he was the only vet for miles around. Also, and there was his instinct again, he felt that Emhyr was the kind of person who was quick to look for solutions to problems. No matter the cost or the time.  
  
The feeling did not deceive him this time either. It was almost one o'clock at night when he turned into the courtyard - he was not even surprised that there were still guards at the gate. After he parked the car, he grabbed his bag and rushed to the stables. While everything had been dark at the front of the house, the situation was different here: the stables were brightly lit. When Geralt entered them, they were surprisingly warm. The reason for this was a mobile heater that was placed in front of Cirilla's Box. The situation that presented itself to Geralt was almost touching, had it not been dramatic at the same time: Emhyr sat on the ground in front of his horse, which lay there snorting softly, and rhythmically stroked the mare's head. A lying horse was rarely a good sign, and so Geralt was already with her in the next second, reached past Emhyr and carefully opened the mare's mouth to examine her gums.  
"Was she restless?" he asked instead of a greeting.  
"She has often laid down and got up again," Emhyr replied. "She scraped her hooves unusually often."  
He didn't ask why Geralt arrived only now - which the latter had almost expected.  
The mare passed the examination almost stoically, as if - just like Emhyr, perhaps - she had just been waiting for him to finally come.  
  
"Did you change the feed? Another litter? Has someone else been riding her?"  
The staccato of questions seemed to surprise Emhyr for once, or at least that's how Geralt interpreted the look he gave him.v  
"Is it really a colic?" he asked as if he had already suspected it. And of course he did, Geralt thought. The man had years of experience with horses, and that didn't just go by, even if you didn't have the opportunity to keep horses yourself for some time.  
"It looks like it," Geralt replied, "You could have covered her up, but the heater is not a stupid idea."  
"I didn't know when you would come. I didn't expect the answering machine."  
  
There was no reproach in his voice, and yet Geralt answered almost irritated, "I have a private life."  
Which wasn't really true and wasn't the right answer, but Emhyr didn't remark anything.  
Geralt stood up and said, "Okay, I'll tell you what we'll do. We have to get the straw out, the food out, but we need water. Is your stable master still here?"  
"He doesn't live here," said Emhyr and, to Geralt's surprise, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. "Tell me what to do."  
If Geralt had ever believed that nothing about the man could surprise him anymore (which he didn't), he was proven wrong again. They worked side by side for the next hours. The box had to be cleared of everything that could disturb Cirilla's restless rolling, she was occasionally led outside the stables, and Geralt examined her at regular intervals. Fortunately, her colic was not that bad, so a light medication and the other actions were sufficient without him having to resort to more radical treatments.  
  
The horse fell asleep at some point, a deep and firm sleep, and it was clear that the worst was over. It was a definite sign that she felt safe, as she was the only horse in the stable, outside of a herd. Still, it was also a sign that she was exhausted when she actually fell asleep lying down. Geralt stood up, stretched, put his stethoscope in his bag, and calmly remarked, "I think that's it. Let her sleep; I'll recheck her tomorrow…"  
He took a quick look at his watch and interrupted himself, "... recheck her later. Ask the stable master if he changed the feed or if anything else was different. She is not a particularly nervous horse. There must be a reason why she developed a colic."  
Emhyr just nodded. Then he suddenly said, "Stay a little longer. Have a drink with me. I think we both need that now."  
Geralt grazed the other man with an almost cool look, but his voice could not entirely hide the fact that he sounded angry.  
"I don't think so. Alcohol put me in a pretty awkward position last time."  
The amber eyes looked at him searchingly, perhaps even with slight surprise.  
"I didn't get the feeling that you found that _awkward._ "  
"Well, you're not kicked out of the house every day after you've slept with your _client._ "  
He deliberately stressed the last word.  
  
The other man frowned, but when Geralt turned around and started to leave, he held him back. His grip was firm, imperious as ever; if a certain restlessness had seized him because of the sick horse, that had passed. He might appear informal and quite tired, but his will to keep control was still there.  
"I'm not usually sleeping around if that's what you're implying."  
"What? No. I meant... well, what I meant was that it has been unprofessional."  
"From you? I did not feel that way."  
Geralt just looked at him, unable to recognize if Emhyr really didn't want to understand him. He looked at the hand that held his arm and couldn't comprehend why he didn't just shake it off and leave.  
"Oh, and before you get that wrong again," Emhyr added, and Geralt thought he saw a certain sparkle in his eyes, "I meant as a veterinarian, of course. Everything else is hard to judge after this one time, I must say."  
" _Excuse me_? That's not only impudent, that's..."  
Geralt's sincere indignation was interrupted when, suddenly, soft lips met his own. The grip on his arm became a little tighter as he was pulled into an embrace.


	12. You give me a reason to feel like I belong here

Once again, he could neither escape this embrace nor the kiss. Once again, he did not know if he wanted to. This time, the kiss was gentle and light, less filled with passion than perhaps with a feeling that it actually had to make up for something - even without knowing precisely what it was about.  
But Geralt had not forgotten, and when the lips eventually (finally? Unfortunately?) separated from his own, he said, "A strange way to treat someone you have thrown out."  
Emhyr looked at him, bowing his head, scrutinizing him, and replied, "I don't quite understand."  
"I had the impression that... this night was not entirely to your liking," Geralt said. He tried to read in the other's face, to interpret something into it, but that was not possible. And that he would _laugh_ was not foreseeable. He didn't seem to laugh often, and the sound was as surprising as it was almost odd.  
"Funny, after all, you are the one who left rather suddenly without saying goodbye," Emhyr returned.  
"And I got a distinct impression that _you_ liked it."  
"Then why did you throw me out?" Geralt asked confusedly.  
"I have done nothing like that ... oh."  
Now, at last, he seemed to understand, and the expression that briefly flashed across Emhyr's face appeared to be as confused as amused for a moment.  
  
"I'm not exactly a morning person," he then said calmly. "And I'm not used to this sort of thing."  
He left open what exactly he meant by that - that someone was spending the night with him or something else?  
"Besides, I was expecting business partners quite early that morning. You can't blame me for being devoted to my work, Geralt. I guess you also have to come when you are called because an animal has fallen ill. My work doesn't always have a predictable end, either. Or it may start very early."  
As an explanation, Geralt thought that was probably as good as anything else, although somewhat evasive and not exactly apologetic. But once again, Emhyr was to surprise him.  
He had not taken his hands from Geralt's hips, and once more, he pulled him very close, looking at his face in a searching manner.  
"I will try to get used to the fact," he said softly, "that you are more sensitive than you look."  
Geralt pulled a face, and Emhyr quickly added, "I'm not referring to the scars. Maybe I'm not very skilled in dealing with people."  
"I would find that an amazing flaw in a businessman," Geralt replied.  
He felt hot breath at his ear as Emhyr whispered to him, "Do you really want to discuss this now, or would you prefer me to fuck you once again?"  
  
This blatant statement made Geralt flinch, and he could feel the effect of it - all of it, the kiss, the breath, the voice, and the words - in many parts of his body.  
"It seems to me," Emhyr continued rather casually, letting one hand wander across Geralt's back while the other gripped his ass firmly, "you'd want that. But I need you to say it. Do you?"  
It seemed impossible to escape this almost hypnotic voice. The answer was obvious; he knew Emhyr could already feel it. He could see it on his face, too. And yet, Geralt said it.  
"I do. I want it," he murmured, trying to catch those lips again. Emhyr seemed to think he had earned a kiss, albeit a very brief one, because shortly after, he said quite abruptly, "We should go inside."  
Geralt wasn't used to be held by the hand by a man, and yet Emhyr did not let go while he led him back to the house. He did not have to pull him; Geralt himself did not understand the power that made him follow. Like a dog on a leash, he thought, and yet this was not true. He could leave at any moment, he did not have to bite. He just didn’t want to. He wasn’t _owned_ , but somehow, he did not feel completely free either.  
  
They soon reached the house, still dark, and Emhyr did not seem willing to change it. He had hardly closed the front door behind them when he started to push Geralt to it. Any tenderness had vanished in the following kiss that parted Geralt's lips with no effort. A knee pushed apart his legs, and one of those warm hands cupped his member through his trousers, leaving Geralt with a sharp exhale.  
"You're gonna make this easy for me, I see," Emhyr mocked him softly as he could clearly feel his hardness. And it wasn't that Geralt _wanted_ to make it easy for him. His body just betrayed him again, being much easier to manipulate than his thoughts.  
"Did you miss this?"  
The dark, seductive voice expressed those words with such certainty that it seemed the other man could read Geralt's mind. An answer was not necessary. Lips were on his ear again, casually nibbling on the earlobe, before they made their way to that sensitive spot on his throat. A fleeting thought rose up within him: Had he missed the touch, or had he missed the man? There was no time to pursue that thought.  
  
His obvious arousal seemed to have gone to his head, for suddenly he gave Emhyr a defiant look.  
"Do you want this right here and now?" he asked, while his body stretched out to the other's hand, which was still stroking provocatively slowly over the bump in his pants. The answer was more than unexpected, and it took his breath away. Emhyr reached for him, grabbing his arms almost roughly, pulling on them and - Geralt was not quite clear how it had happened - then, suddenly, he had turned him over, pressing his face and body against the door. Emhyr turned his arms on his back, then held his wrists tight with one hand - quite relaxed, quite provocative - and began to stroke his butt almost tenderly with the other.  
"Is this what you want?" he murmured into his ear, as his breath ran hot across Geralt's neck. "A stimulating idea, my dear. But better for another time, don't you think? We should take this slowly. I don't think you're ready for this. I don't want to hurt you. Though I do think, one day I will show you what this tongue..." - and with these words he once again almost casually caressed that particular point on Geralt's throat - "…can do to prepare you."  
There was no way Geralt could have prevented the shiver running through his body or the soft moan escaping his mouth.  
"I see," Emhyr uttered with unconcealed amusement. "Let's not keep you waiting, shall we?"  
With these words, Emhyr turned him around, much more gently now, took his hand, and pulled Geralt with him, up the stairs, into the bedroom.  
That he did not really remember how exactly he had landed on the bed, Geralt could not attribute to the alcohol this time. Yet, there he was again. The sheets felt cool, or was his body just already so heated? The fact that Emhyr stood before him and provocatively slowly began to undress did not make things any easier. Then he stood there, completely naked, and Geralt couldn't help but think that this was a little unfair since he was still clothed.  
"Do you like what you see?"  
The question came as unexpectedly as anything else.  
Geralt, leaning on his elbows, took the time to look at the other man extensively. Yes, he liked what he saw; there was no denying that. This here was a man who knew how to take care of himself. The skin was flawless, almost hairless, soft to touch, though not half as sensitive as Geralt's was.  
And yes, he liked the sight of that cock, no doubt about that. Not yet fully hard, but promising.  
"Because if you do," Emhyr continued without giving him a chance to answer, pointing casually downwards his own body, "you might need to do something about this."  
Again, there was this challenging look, not looking for consent this time, but maybe for a certain amount of courage.  
  
Geralt sat up, advanced to the edge of the bed, stretched out his arms. He put his hands on Emhyr’s butt, pulled him closer in a confident movement, but there was some final hesitation. Some final doubt. There it was, the actual first time. A bold move, one that even the audacity of youth had never brought about. Yet, the temptation was near. He only needed to stretch out his hand. And so he did. He grabbed him, tenderly, and when he bent forward to taste him, he closed his eyes.  
It was a unique taste. A hint of salt; a strange, vague touch of Emhyr’s aftershave, and, quite surprising, he tasted mostly nothing else. It was not unpleasant, not at all, and Geralt soon found that he knew what to do and how to do it. It was easy because he knew what he liked. He thought, not entirely wrongly, that he had experienced a lot of blowjobs in his life - it couldn’t be that hard, and so his instincts guided him along.  
His tongue went along that shaft, hesitantly, maybe a little insecure at first; but after a short while, he opened up his eyes again. He saw that even those few moments had affected Emhyr, and he noticed that he liked that. So he put his lips on the tip, a fleeting kiss, followed by his tongue, and a quick look upwards showed him what he wanted to see. He liked it, Emhyr liked it; he didn’t look down at him, his eyes were half closed. His hands lay on Geralt’s back, and when he finally put his lips over his cock, took him in, _invited_ him, the grip became stronger. Geralt could feel his nails on his back, on the verge of painfulness. He closed his eyes once more and gave in to the feeling. He filled up his own mouth deliberately, almost as if he wanted to _inhale_ him. Yet it was more that he sucked him in, although he changed his movements every few seconds. He licked, he nibbled; he kissed him, caressed him with his lips and his hand. Now Emhyr was hard, he was slick with Geralt’s saliva, and he was irresistible. Emhyr clawed into Geralt’s hair, making soft little noises. Suddenly, he withdrew and said, somewhat hoarse, "Wait, don’t go too fast."  
  
He took his time to undress Geralt, to free him not only of the clothes but maybe also of any thoughts. There was a sparkle in his eyes, an indicator that he, too, liked what he saw. Once again, he seemed to devour Geralt with his glance. Then, in a swift movement, he lay down on the bed. Without a word, he called Geralt to come closer with a waving gesture, and of course, he obeyed. He changed his own position and bent over him again, taking him into his mouth once more, even deeper now. Emhyr's hands started to leave a trail over his body, every touch a premonition, every grip a glimpse of what was to come. He rearranged Geralt's body with his touches, and the latter was putty in those hands. While he was still, now much more confident, almost bold, sucking and licking and _worshipping_ that cock, Emhyr touched his ass. The warm grip switched from a soft caress to a firm clap, and he twitched for a second, unsure if he liked it. He continued with his own movements, only vaguely realizing that Emhyr reached for something. A heartbeat later, he felt a finger on his opening, slick and hot, mocking him with a touch that felt similar to his own efforts. It went into his warmth smoothly, and soon another one followed, causing him to moan all over the cock in his mouth. Emhyr used his free hand to tuck at Geralt's hairband, which wasn't easy with one hand, while he was never stopping his movements with the other one. Finally, he had removed the ribbon, and Geralt's hair fell down openly, covering his face. He pushed aside some strands of hair and watched him. But now Geralt was almost too distracted with those fingers inside him, pushing slowly, bending, and finding a point where he just had to stop. He withdrew, still holding Emhyr's member firmly, while his other hand went up to his chest, not quite knowing if he wanted him to signal to stop or not. It was a new feeling, very unfamiliar, close to pain, and also close to a pleasure he never knew. He gasped, then he supported himself on his palms, looking at Emhyr, asking, "What are you doing to me?"  
  
Of course, it was a question with a lot of meanings, and Emhyr knew this very well. A soft laugh was heard, and he answered, "Whatever you want."  
His fingers pushed a little harder after this, and so his reply was, too, meaningful. This was not only what Geralt wanted - even if he had not known that until just now -, it was as much what Emhyr wanted, too. Obviously, he knew a little better how to play this game; he had more experience in it. One more push, again a little mocking, maybe, then the fingers were gone. He shifted, briefly grabbing Geralt's face for another kiss, and then, suddenly, he was behind him, pulling his ass cheeks apart. There was no doubt he was watching him now, but Geralt was far beyond any shame now. Another swift movement to the bed's headboard, another brief moment of no touching left him almost thirsty. And then, a warm hand on his back, pushing him down, and he buried his face in the pillows.  
  
This time, there was no pain at all, just that feeling of tightness and pressure, irresistible, and irritating at the same time. But the heat that rose in him was now anything but contradictory. Especially since Emhyr, who was still deliberately slow, made a sound when he was completely immersed in him - a sound that clearly expressed forced restraint, which he could now, soon, finally, give up. And he did. The first thrusts were soft, almost playful. But there was Geralt, his face and neck were flushed, his eyes closed; clawing his hands into the sheets. The sounds out of his throat were inviting. And so he pushed him on as if he wanted to cheer him on with his movements, holding his hips - or maybe holding _on_ to them.  
"God, you're so warm, I can't…" he muttered, never saying what he couldn't, because, obviously, he could.  
  
Still, it was short and rough; somehow, like the kind of sex couples had that knew each other very well and just needed to get rid of some sort of tension. Emhyr pushed all the right buttons, touched all the right spots, and made all the right movements, and Geralt? He just went with the flow, let himself drown in the waves of pleasure. He moaned and nearly screamed into that pillow, and he pushed back with his whole body, trying to get even more. And he got all that was there, for Emhyr was not holding back anymore; and maybe it hurt at some point, but he didn’t even care. Eventually, he reached out, grabbed for Geralt’s cock, and his hand was still slick and warm, and Geralt came at almost the first touch. There was a little laughter behind him, chopped off, and when Emhyr finished, he collapsed on Geralt’s body, and they were both pressed into the sheets, panting.  
  
Several minutes later, when they were lying next to each other, a little cleaned up, covered with a blanket, Geralt muttered, "Don't throw me out again. Because I don't think I can leave now, my legs are still trembling."  
The corners of Emhyr's mouth twitched.  
"I won't," he promised. "Stay, sleep. But I actually have a meeting at 8."  
A quick glance at the clock revealed to Geralt that there were a good five hours left until then. He would not get much sleep, but he was used to it.  
"That's enough for me," he murmured. While he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, he still felt a strand of hair being pushed out of his face again. A light, almost fleeting kiss struck his forehead, and a hand lay on his back, then he had fallen asleep.


	13. Once half a man, now my heart, my heart has come home

Geralt awoke from the vague feeling of a movement beside him. That was all it took for him to suddenly open his eyes - an old, undoubtedly unwanted habit because it was somewhat military, but still one he couldn't take off. Even when there was no danger, his body always behaved as if it was immediate.   
Emhyr was already sitting on the edge of the bed with his - now again curly - hair ruffled from sleep, looking at him, almost as if he wanted to savor the moment a little longer.  
  
"Good morning," he said with this slightly amused tone of voice as if he could hardly believe that this guy woke up in his bed again.  
"Is there still time for coffee?" Geralt growled, and the answer was apparently not quite what Emhyr had expected, as the corners of his mouth lifted - only the hint of a smile, unlike last night, but still there.  
"It's only seven o'clock," he remarked. "Get dressed; I'll make you some coffee."  
Then he disappeared again behind the door in the wall, behind which Geralt assumed a bathroom or maybe a dressing room.  
„ _You_ are going to make it?" he replied while slowly peeling his head out of the pillow. "I'm sure you have your own barista for that."  
"Good heavens," came the somewhat muffled answer from the adjoining room, "at this time of day, I can't stand anyone. Besides, I make excellent coffee. Well, the machine does."  
"So you _did_ throw me out the other day," said Geralt while he was looking for his clothes. Emhyr's face appeared briefly at the door. The curls hadn't wholly vanished yet, but it was evident that he was already making an effort.  
"I didn't," he hummed and disappeared again.  
"I have to pee," Geralt returned, eager to find out what exactly was behind that threshold.  
In fact, it was a kind of walk-in closet - a little oversized perhaps, filled with shelves full of shirts and suits, with soft and flattering lighting. There was a large mirror in front of which Emhyr stood, mercilessly combing the curls out of his hair.  
"The other door," he replied with the first hint of his usual impatience, though not unkindly.  
  
All of this was still - or again - strange. Although they were undoubtedly only gold-colored, the bathroom actually had golden taps; Geralt did not consider Emhyr to be that pretentious.  
His urgent desire to brush his teeth had as much to do with the fact that he was hoping for another kiss (actually, several) as with the fact that he thought it was a simple morning necessity and did not like to drink his coffee with unbrushed teeth. There was actually a packed toothbrush by the sink, just as if Emhyr was expecting regular visitors - or maybe it was just a quirky rich-person affair. When he stepped out of the bathroom - unlike Emhyr, with uncombed hair, because the headband seemed to have disappeared once again - Emhyr was standing in the bedroom again, just buttoning up his shirt.  
"You see? I didn't throw you out," he remarked, and after a quick glance at his watch, he added, "Come on, we do still have time for a coffee."  
  
The kitchen was pretty much what Geralt had expected: many gloss and chrome and smooth surfaces, oversized and sterile, like in a furniture store. Of course, the coffee machine was also immensely large and most likely enormously expensive - and the coffee it produced was impeccable. This did not necessarily apply to the atmosphere. The uncertainty of the previous day was back, at least in Geralt, who clearly felt the other man's gaze, but felt nearly timid to return it.  
He felt he had gained some insight into this man's life, though it was little more than a glimpse. The house, which displayed its owner's wealth sometimes almost timidly, sometimes ostentatiously, did not reveal much about his personality. What exactly was it? Emhyr was impatient, sometimes perhaps nearly hectic - because he valued punctuality? He could be unfriendly, bossy, and rude because he was obviously used to quickly following his wishes and requirements. He seemed to subordinate a lot to his work and expect others to do the same. He knew what he wanted and how he could enforce it - although, for Geralt, this still held a kind of secret that he could not understand. At least as long as it concerned himself and his almost unlikely willingness to give in to this man.  
  
But there was also this other side. Emhyr could be tender, almost soft; he knew exactly how to do it to satisfy someone. He was very attached to his horse, had left everything to help the mare, and had not even shied away from physical labor. He seemed willing to learn from mistakes, although he might not necessarily admit them. The connection to his past was both tragic and touching.  
All in all, the man was highly contradictory. How could someone be cold and hot, soft and hard at the same time? Geralt found this confusing, and even if this dichotomy was one of the reasons that attracted him, there had to be more. But he did not understand this, and it bothered him. He considered himself a comparatively simple person, and not without reason. How he had grown up, how he lived, and what he had experienced had been complicated enough. He had overcome all that, and he loved his simple life, in which the most significant difficulty was when he had to tell a pet owner that one of his patients would not make it. As hard as it was, it was decent and straightforward, and those were the kind of problems he could handle.  
  
He placed the cup on the kitchen counter, looked straight ahead at Emhyr, and asked determinedly, "So, what is this?"  
"What is what?" Emhyr replied calmly, sensing quite clearly that Geralt was not referring to the coffee.   
"All of this. I don't know what to call it."  
"Sex?" Emhyr offered, took one last sip from his cup, and looked at him calmly. "Or more. I guess that depends on what you want."  
"But what do _you_ want?" Geralt asked, and he felt somehow helpless. "I have no idea what I want. I am confused. This is... new for me. I'm not saying I don't like it…"  
"Oh, I noticed that," Emhyr threw in, and there was that twinkle in his eyes again.  
"... but honestly," Geralt continued, this time without being distracted, "Noncommittal sex is beyond me. And if that's what you're looking for, then I don't know…"  
"Everything is new to you, and this is very exciting," Emhyr replied. "You don't want casual sex, but you didn’t refuse it also. Do you really think you're ready to have a relationship with a man?"  
Geralt remained silent, somehow troubled. Of course, this was the next logical step in his thought experiment, but an idea that appeared to be somehow two steps ahead of his own.  
"Just think about it. Figure it out," said Emhyr. Then he stood up, and when Geralt glanced at his watch, it was clear that the moment had passed. Not just the moment, the whole night.  
"Come here," said Emhyr, and again Geralt reacted as if pulled on an invisible string. He was pulled into an embrace that seemed firm and secure to him, which was everything that he himself was not at that moment. The following kiss was surprisingly gentle. It seemed like a promise again, but this time it was of a completely different kind.  
  
"It's almost eight," Emhyr whispered close to his ear. Geralt broke away from the hug and said with a wry grin, "That's a decent kick."  
"I'll walk you to the door."  
They walked side by side through the far too large house, in silence and in a kind of mutual agreement that needed no words. At the door, Geralt was confident enough to steal another kiss, yet he couldn't quite surprise the other man with his move.  
"I'll see you..."  
"... on Sunday," Emhyr finished his sentence.  
There was nothing more to say, and Geralt opened the front door.  
  
Outside stood a woman with her back to him, yelling after a small dog - a tiny lapdog that had somehow escaped its leash and was now running across the yard. The woman, wearing an elegant black pantsuit with white galon stripes, carried a leather briefcase in her left hand. Apparently this was the expected business appointment, and Geralt was embarrassed that he was so late and came out of his client's house with his tangled hair and his casual appearance - although he was sure that this lady was not one of the city's residents.  
She was not. When she turned around, cursing quietly, her right hand already raised to ring the bell, Geralt froze.  
  
Before him stood his ex-wife, Yennefer.


	14. Part II // You’re the misfit, I’m the sinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the second part, we're switching to ["World on fire"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rFN9FQafITw) by Slash, meaning all chapter titles are from the lyrics of that song.

Yennefer managed to recollect faster than he did. That was no wonder.  
"Geralt," she said with that cool voice she had reserved for him for several years now. "Certainly a surprise."  
Of course, this was not to be understood literally. Even if he had been standing naked in the doorway, Yennefer would not have been surprised - or she wouldn't have shown it.  
Instead, she sounded almost offended that she met him here.  
Geralt avoided looking at her. And although he could almost feel Emhyr's gaze in his neck, he didn't look at him either.  
"Your dog is fleeing," he said.  
Yennefer took a look behind at the forecourt. The little dog had almost disappeared behind the bend that led to the gate, probably already yapping at the guards.  
"I have to go," Geralt then said, and without another word or a glance, he headed for his car with quick steps. He fled, like the little dog, that was only too obvious.  
  
Slamming the car door and putting the ignition key into the lock was like a single movement. As he headed for the gate, he directed his gaze stubbornly straight forward; never looking back. Heading back to the city, on the way to his practice, Geralt thought feverishly about what on earth Yennefer was arranging with Emhyr. What kind of business could it be? Yennefer, an ex-cop, had gone into business for herself many years ago, switching to the security industry. Did the two of them already have a business relationship, or was it Yennefer's first visit? Did she maybe support Emhyr's dangerous goods transports with her company? And did he welcome all his business contacts at his home?  
  
Geralt noticed that he felt the greatest uneasiness about the whole thing because the sight of Yennefer conjured up the past - at a moment when he was in quite a turmoil about his future. He wondered if Emhyr knew who Yennefer was. Who she had been to him. However, Geralt believed that he would have told him to leave a little earlier if that had been the case. Nevertheless, this was awkward. He certainly had some fond memories of Yennefer. Still, Geralt was far less interested in her finding out who he was sleeping with than in Emhyr finding out that his business partner was his ex-wife.  
The whole thing was messy, and as far as his feelings were concerned, he was somehow back to square one by Yennefer's appearance. She still managed to make an impression on him, or rather to stir him up somehow. He didn't know whether it was because of herself, the memories he associated with her, or because of their daughter, their link. At the same time, he could never hear her voice, never look at her without feeling the guilt he was carrying.  
  
All these were things he usually preferred not to think about. Fortunately, his work allowed him to repress his thoughts for the time being. His practice was in the city, and besides occasional walk-in customers, it was one of the usual Mondays. Most animal owners shied away from going to the expensive animal clinic in the next big city over the weekend, so they waited and came to the practice on Monday morning. He had a busy day and even little time to think about Emhyr. The prospects that his words had set him facing. The contradictory feelings he aroused in him. But also the lust, the desires that he had awakened in him. Those were not thoughts for the day, not only because they would distract him from his work.  
  
The day was long, and only when he finally arrived home and saw from a distance that Roach was in the pasture, he remembered that he had not been there to feed her. It was no drama; she could graze on the meadow. But it reminded him that he also had not rechecked on Cirilla again in the morning as promised. That was probably not a problem either; she had recovered well during the night. But it was not his style, and it was not in accordance with his duty of care, which he felt for his patients. While he went to the pasture to greet Roach, he thought about what he should do. Call and ask? If something had happened, he would undoubtedly have received a call during the day. The stable master was pretty good, but now Geralt had to trust that Emhyr would find out what change had caused the horse to colic. That wasn't his job, it was Geralt's job, and he felt bad about it.  
  
Roach, who had noticed him arriving, came trotting back from the pasture and went straight into the stable, expecting to be fed by her disloyal owner. Geralt sighed. However, he soon found out that his somewhat too shrewd mare had succeeded in opening the bolt to the chamber. In it, he kept tools - and some sacks of food. She had managed to rip one of them open and help herself, causing quite a mess.  
"You are impossible," muttered Geralt after he had closed Roach's box, briefly brushing across her nostrils. She snorted - it sounded almost amused - and nudged against his hand.  
  
After he had cleaned up the mess and finally returned to the house, it had already become quite late. Geralt threw himself on the couch and thought about what to do about his own growling stomach when the phone rang. It was not the practice phone, for which he was grateful. But he was less happy about who was calling him. It was Yennefer. He could have imagined that she wouldn't just check this encounter off. Although they saw each other seldom enough, she would never miss an opportunity to rub his shortcomings in his face. Geralt let a few seconds pass. The ringing sounded almost reproachful in his ears, so he finally accepted the call reluctantly.  
  
"Yennefer," he said. "Still in town?"  
"Don't sound so disappointed," she replied, "Yes, I'm still in town. A terrible hole, I don't know how you stand it here. Let's get something to eat, Geralt, if there's anything decent and edible around here."  
He was silent for a moment.  
"Why?"  
She laughed, a sparkling sound in which arrogance was combined with cool cheerfulness.  
"My goodness, are you _offended_ that I did not tell you I was coming hither? My transactions are really none of your business, my dear. But I am here now, and it's late. You'll endure a harmless dinner with your ex-wife, Geralt. For old times' sake?"  
He didn't understand this wish, but there was hardly anything to object to. It was true; Yennefer was alone in an unfamiliar city that could hardly compete with what she was used to. The past that connected them had not always been bad. And maybe he owed it to her. In any case, she knew how to make it feel like that.  
"All right," he eventually replied. "I know a pretty decent restaurant. I'll pick you up."  
"I'm at..."  
"I know," he interrupted her. "There aren't that many hotels in town. I haven't forgotten your taste."  
With that, he hung up, sighed, reached for the car keys, and rose.  
  
Yennefer had, of course, picked the best hotel in town. It was undoubtedly below her standard but guaranteed a certain comfort. She waited for him in the lobby, where she sat - apparently completely relaxed - in an armchair, reading a magazine. But Geralt was not fooled by this. Yennefer was rarely wholly relaxed, and she was not interested in gossip publications. Old habits could rarely be discarded - she observed her surroundings. _Good luck with that_ , he thought. _There is really nothing to see here._  
She still looked the same as she did in the old days: dark curls fell just as softly over her shoulders and framed her finely cut face. She was a tall, elegant appearance that attracted attention everywhere - which was a thing he usually avoided.  
He took her to a restaurant that had only opened some time ago, with a modern concept that didn't suit the place or him - and would probably guarantee that he wouldn't be seen by any client right away. A rumor about him with any woman in town would probably not be too bad given some of his female clients; still, he would rather go without such things.  
  
The meal was surprisingly peaceful. Geralt already wondered what exactly he had expected. He felt uneasy in the presence of his ex-wife, a feeling he could only attribute to himself. She did nothing to strengthen his feelings - but also did little to reduce them. Her remarks were always trenchant, sometimes sarcastic. They talked about their daughter Anna, about his work - but avoided a conversation about hers - and other, harmless things. At some point, to Geralt's surprise, she suggested having a drink at his place.  
"Do you really think this is a good idea?" he asked. Yennefer looked at him disparagingly.  
"How often do we see each other?" she replied. "It won't kill you."  
"You avoided such reunions for quite some time," Geralt said cautiously.  
She shrugged it off.  
"At some point, grass has grown over everything," she countered, a little cryptic.  
"It is late," said Geralt.  
"But never too late," Yennefer said.  
  
Geralt was not sure of that. And yet he found himself back in his home soon after, as someone who apparently lately had developed the habit of not being able to say no. To nothing, to nobody.  
Yennefer, who had never been here before, had found his sparse supply of alcohol with somnambulistic certainty. In the end, they ended up with beer. She had taken off her high-heeled shoes, and as she sat on his couch with her knees pulled up, she almost looked like the woman he remembered. Even if this had been a long time ago.  
"What exactly brings you here?" Geralt asked eventually. Yennefer tilted her head; her smile was almost authentic.  
"You know very well that I won't tell you that," she answered casually.  
"Come on, you're not in the secret service. Do you still have your security company?"  
She narrowed her eyes.  
"We really haven't spoken for a long time, Geralt, haven't we? No, I don't. I run a private detective agency now. And no, I'm not gonna tell you what I was doing in that house this morning. You're not gonna tell me what you were doing there either?"  
Her eyes had taken on a strange glint. Or maybe he was just paranoid. She had always had a tendency to make fun of others. And he was quite sure that she had no idea what he had actually been doing in that house.  
  
"What could I have been doing there," he replied. "The man owns a horse."  
Yennefer nodded.  
"The horses," she sighed, "you know very well that in a larger city, you would earn considerably more with smaller animals. People are crazy about dogs and cats."  
"You have a dog yourself. He's probably barking in your hotel room until you come. You shouldn't leave such a small dog alone for so long. This breed gets nervous quickly."  
She laughed again.  
"You still avoid the subject. Besides, I'm not here to talk to you about dogs."  
Geralt looked at her attentively. The dimmed light in the room gave her eyes an almost supernatural color. It made her features soft but nearly as impenetrable as Emhyr's. He still wondered if the latter knew who Yennefer was.  
"Then why are you here?" he asked calmly.  
She remained silent for a moment. Then she replied, to Geralt's surprise, "It gets pretty lonely out there sometimes."  
"Do you still travel a lot?"  
Yennefer nodded.  
"Nothing has changed in that. I don't care if my customers are in the big city or... well, you know."  
She made a dismissive gesture that obviously included the small town, but he ignored that.  
  
Nevertheless, he was not prepared for it when she now bent over, placing the bottle on the floor and said, "Has the thought never occurred to you to leave the past behind you?"  
Geralt smiled - a mixture of sadness and cynicism, even if he couldn't see it himself.  
"That's one of the reasons I live here, Yen," he replied quietly.  
"Oh, nonsense," she replied with sudden vehemence. "You thought you could just retreat into your self-chosen solitude, and we would forget you in time?"  
  
Geralt was even less prepared for her to move a little closer and suddenly press her lips against his.


	15. You're the heathen, I'm the fool

He didn't push her away, not at first. Geralt was too surprised - and it was not unpleasant. The feeling was familiar, like a body-worn old garment that you slip on again after years only to find that it still fits. This was a kiss that he knew. That he remembered. Soft and warm, yet still… not the same. Not the same as before, and not the same as his last kiss. That tipped the scales. The moment he realized, he pulled back.  
"What's wrong?" Yennefer asked gently.  
Geralt shook his head.  
"This is truly a mistake."  
Yennefer leaned back, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and said disparagingly, "You mean to tell me you still think about _her_?“  
He refrained from assuring her that another _woman_ was the last thing on his mind.  
Instead, he shook his head.  
"I just don't think we should repeat the same mistakes."  
  
Yennefer squinted her eyes together. She looked at him with that expression she had always reserved for suspects in the past, and made a gesture that included all of his modest living room.  
"Nothing in your apartment suggests a, let's say, _female hand_ , Geralt. You didn't even put up any photos, but well, you were never sentimental."  
He was not surprised that she had already drawn such conclusions from his surroundings in that short time.  
"Let's suppose that you don't have a girlfriend at the moment," she continued, "then I must assume that this is about me personally. Look, I've made mistakes too. Don't look at me like that; I'm only going to admit it this once. Haven't you ever wondered if we could have solved it all differently?"  
"Sure," he admitted. "But most of all, I shouldn't have slept with your best friend. And even if it doesn't seem that way to you, I... I'm seeing someone, actually. I do not want to complicate my life."  
"And you think I would complicate your life," she stated businesslike. "Well, maybe you're right."  
She got up, slipped back into her shoes, and added, "I'm leaving around noon tomorrow. You know where to find me if you change your mind."  
Without another word, she reached for her jacket and left the house. He didn't hold her back.  
  
Only a few years ago, Geralt would have been more than happy about the offer. Damn, even just a few weeks ago. Absolutely obvious, it had been kind of a peace offering. A chance to bury the past, to make things right. And it could not be denied that Yennefer’s beauty was still catching. But there was this pair of amber eyes that seemed to have burned itself into his memory. A profound voice, no less hypnotic. A touch he longed for. He may still not understand it, yet, he was sure that this was exactly what he wanted right now. And Geralt did not intend to undermine that - whatever it was - by getting involved with his ex-wife again. Apparently, some things were actually meant for the past, meant to stay there - a memory, nothing more.  
  
Others weren't.  
After another busy day, whose noon passed without him regretting that Yennefer would leave without his intervention, his practice phone rang when he was already home. It had been another day of not hearing anything from Emhyr - who, however, owed him no explanation and would certainly not tell him what business he had with Yennefer. Yet, Geralt's deceitful heart wanted to believe for a moment that it was him who called. But it was late, and such a call would have meant another problem with Cirilla. The man still didn't have his private number, but somehow he didn't seem like the type who would call just to hear his voice. On the other hand, Geralt was not in a position to judge that. As far as that was concerned, his thoughts kept going around in circles.  
He didn't recognize the number on the display, and it was his practice phone, so Geralt took the call and announced himself businesslike with "Dr. Wolf. How can I help?"  
A snort at the other end told him who the caller was even before the first words were spoken.  
  
"You are in the yellow pages. Who would have ever thought it?"  
"Lambert. What happened?"  
 _Definitely nothing good_ , Geralt thought.  
The voice at the other end remained silent for a moment, which only strengthened Geralt's bad feeling. They hadn't seen each other for years, and their last meeting hadn't been really successful either. He had had two encounters with his past in a short time that he would have gladly done without. But maybe that was his own problem. Perhaps he had to learn that you cannot escape the past. In the end, Geralt was also a product of earlier events. Obviously, they could catch up with you at any time, which is why it was perhaps better to make peace with it. However, he found these thoughts difficult.  
"Listen," Lambert said. "Maybe there was some truth in what you said."  
Apparently, he wanted Geralt to drag it out of him.  
"That you're in trouble?"  
  
Again, a moment of silence followed.  
"Perhaps," Lambert replied reluctantly. Then he added, almost hastily, "You might be able to help me with a thing, buddy. I mean, I'm really grateful that you've shown up after all this time."  
It was obviously his way of apologizing, and Geralt had never been particularly resentful.  
"It's okay," he sighed. "What kind of trouble are you in?"  
"Let's meet. I'm sending you the coordinates. You can be there in an hour. I'll explain everything then."  
Lambert sputtered now as if his courage would leave him if he didn't let it all out right away. Then, without another word, he hung up. While Geralt still stared at the phone in surprise, the device vibrated, and a message reached him. Inside was a map with navigation data to a road junction about half an hour away. Geralt frowned. Lambert wanted to meet him so late in the evening - it was almost night - on some random street, far away from the city? It smelled like damn big trouble. Again, this conjured up things from the past that Geralt had tried so long to get rid of. Bad things. And once again, this past made him reach for his car keys, pocket the phone, and leave the house.  
  
Three-quarters of an hour later, he had reached the turnoff; hardly more than a dark dirt road, far from the main street and - at that hour or maybe even at all - unused by other vehicles. Lambert had appeared with his motorcycle, leaning against it, smoking and nervously playing with the chin strap of the helmet he had put on the frame.  
  
"That's strange, even by your standards," Geralt said after he had left the car. "And I hope for your sake that's not a joint."  
"No, that would be a stupid idea; I need a clear head," Lambert returned.  
"Lambert. Are you going to tell me what this is about? It's late, I've had a long day and..."  
"I have some nasty guys on my heels," his old companion shot out.  
"What guys?" Geralt asked, suddenly very serious again.  
"I don't know," Lambert said while he - angry or nervous? - kicked a few stones away with his boots.   
His whole appearance, this typical biker outfit, the attitude: non of it fitted to his unusual restlessness. Geralt, who knew Lambert - or at least had known him well once - was aware that his appearance only faked much of his hardness. But nervousness was not a typical trait of this man. What was going on here?  
  
"I mean, I kinda know, but..."  
Lambert ran his fingers through his short, dark hair and looked directly at Geralt with a serious expression.  
"Listen, I had a job. Or say I was offered one. It sounded simple - bring something here and there, we pay well. Just harmless transportation, you know?"  
"Lambert!" Geralt looked at him in disbelief. "This is never just a simple transport. You should know that."  
He couldn't believe that the other one had acted so stupid to fall for something like that. They had done a lot of stupid things in the past, all three of them, long before everything went down the drain. But there was a simple rule: no transport orders. They were never harmless.  
"What was it?" he asked, almost angry now - without knowing what exactly was annoying him. That Lambert had gotten involved in something like that, or that he himself was worried about it?  
"Drugs? Guns? Damn it, Lambert, spit it out, or I can't help you."  
"Weapons," muttered Lambert, his eyes set on the ground.  
The hastily dropped and extinguished cigarette was followed by another, and he continued, "I had no idea, honestly. It sounded like an easy job, and you can probably imagine that you don't get rich in a club like that. Although maybe you can't, being a veterinarian and all…"  
  
He emphasized that almost as if it was something indecent. As if _Geralt_ was the strange one of them both because he had a _real_ job.  
"That's not exactly a piece of cake either. Go on," Geralt urged.  
"Well," Lambert said after a deep puff on the cigarette, "as I said, a simple job, getting something from A to B. Just that I had a kind of a feeling, you know?"  
He took another puff, and Geralt thought that he actually understood that very well. Lambert had often had such "feelings" before. It would have been ridiculous to call them premonitions, but actually, his instincts had never fooled the man.  
  
"Anyway," Lambert continued, "although there was objectively no reason to doubt the story they had told me - and they don't tell you much anyway, and most of it is a lie, you know - I was kind of nervous. So I took a look at the load. Guns. You know how I feel about that. We've always had our principles, you and me and... well, you know. No drugs. No guns. No _people,_ for Christ's sake."  
Now he almost talked himself into a rage, and Geralt was smart enough not to interrupt him.  
"Anyway, then I realized that I had been pretty stupid. Or maybe too greedy, take your pick. And then... I panicked."  
It was hard to imagine Lambert, who had always been a cynical go-getter, an unshakable rock when it came to action, panicking.  
"And then what?" urged Geralt.  
"Then I ditched the jalopy and took off."  
"You left a car packed with guns somewhere out in the boonies?"  
Lambert made a face as if he had just stubbed out his cigarette in his hand. Instead, he took another deep drag and continued speaking, "I know, not very smart. Anyway, at some point my contact got in touch and wanted to know what was up with the load. I told him I don't smuggle guns, let him keep his fucking money. He didn't think it was funny."  
  
Geralt could imagine that vividly.  
"Then he said he wanted the advance back, and I said he could forget it. A day later, they demolished my girlfriend's car, which was in the backyard. She didn't think it was funny. Luckily, I had parked my baby here at the club. Don't drink and drive, you know?" He pointed to his motorcycle, but Geralt found nothing amusing in his words.  
"But that was not enough. The day after next, some thug came to the club to threaten to beat me up. That was the day after you were with me. And that's when I got an idea."  
"Lambert...," Geralt began, an uneasy feeling creeping over him again. But the other made an impatient hand gesture, sending sparks from the cigarette flying through the air.  
"You and I pay this guy a visit, make it clear to him that there's no point in sending his goons and that he's not going to get his money back. Otherwise, I'm threatening to turn him in."  
"That's a stupid idea," Geralt replied, much calmer than he actually felt inside.  
  
"No, no, you'll see, it works," Lambert spluttered, almost swallowing words as if in a hurry to convince Geralt. "We frighten him a little bit, rough him up..."  
"Are you _insane_? You want me to help you beat up some shady guy, and you think that's actually going to stop him from demanding the money back from you?"  
Geralt truly couldn't believe it.  
"Damn it," he almost yelled, "just give him his money back. Think of it as a kind of tuition, you idiot."  
Geralt was really angry now. He was close to snatching Lambert's stupid cigarette out of his hand, slap him across the face, and put him on his foolish motorcycle so that he would just take off. What was the guy thinking, making such a crazy suggestion to him in the middle of the night, in this godforsaken area?  
"You lured me out to the sticks for that? You really could have told me that nonsense on the phone, Lambert."  
The cigarette flew out into the street, where Lambert stubbed it out with fierce determination and far too much commitment.  
"I would have, but the fact is, I can't go back home," he declared. "There's a car there with two guys. I got out the back and took off. They chased me for a bit, but I know a few tricks."  
  
Geralt knew the tricks, too: he had probably driven way too fast and way too risky, endangering a few people along the way - not to mention his own life - and for what? To feel like the main character in an action movie?  
"All the more reason to get some sense," he said.  
"I can't give him the money back. I don't have it anymore."  
Geralt clenched his fists. But the urge to get rid of his anger and frustration with violence was nowhere near as strong as it used to be, and he knew a remedy for it. He pressed his fingernails into his palms as hard as he could. The pain soothed him.  
"Whoever this guy is, he's not going to settle for that. Even if we show up there in pairs, he obviously has henchmen. This can't work. Jesus, Lambert, the guy wanted you to transport _weapons_ , so he's definitely not a small fish."  
"Come on. We'll do it as we used to, remember? Make him think he's messed with a gang."  
"Insane," Geralt replied through clenched teeth. "How much do you owe him?"  
"2000."  
Geralt sighed.  
"Why didn't you ask me to lend you the money in the first place?"  
  
Lambert stared at him, his expression darkening.  
"I'm not the type to..."  
"I'll get the money. You pay it back, we agree on installments, make a contract — no dumb fighting with any gangsters, Lambert. Tomorrow morning, I'll get it, and you pay him. Tonight you sleep at my place."  
He turned around and walked to his car.  
"Drive behind me," he called over his shoulder.  
"Geralt, this is... this guy won't give up if he has the money!"  
"We'll see about that," Geralt replied as he got into his car. "It's the easiest solution. The _civilized_ solution. Tomorrow the world will already look different, you lunatic. Now come on."


	16. Just trip the wire

"Just promise me you'll get the money there _today_."  
The two had gone to the bank first thing in the morning, but banks opened comparatively late, and the paperwork had also taken quite a while. Geralt needed to open his practice - and beyond that, he wanted to leave all the crap behind. He had the feeling that he had handled the matter exceptionally maturely. Yes, maybe that was the most comfortable way, and maybe he saw it all a bit too naively. But now, his main concern was to leave it all behind. Geralt was already thinking about his animal patients, his work for today, his schedule. This was not the kind of help Lambert had envisioned, but it was - in Geralt's eyes - the more reasonable way.  
  
"Sure," Lambert replied in a slightly annoyed tone. "This is the third time you've reminded me."  
"Maybe that's what it takes," Geralt said snappishly. Surprisingly, Lambert started laughing in response.  
"You sounded so much like Vesemir just now..."  
Geralt looked at Lambert sternly.  
"Maybe you should give him a call. Tell him you're doing fine. That you're _not_ having trouble."  
"Yes, perhaps I will," Lambert said with a subtle smile. "Maybe I really will."  
Geralt looked at his watch.  
"Listen," he began, but Lambert made a dismissive hand gesture, cutting him off.  
"You have work to do. And after all, I have something to do, don't I?"  
The grin on his face didn't seem genuine, but with Lambert, that wasn't always easy to say.  
"It was good to see you again," he added, and it clearly sounded sincere.  
"I agree," Geralt replied, and he was somewhat surprised to find that he actually did feel that way.  
They exchanged a somewhat awkward hug, said their goodbyes, and went their separate ways.  
  
He hardly thought about Lambert the rest of the day, but that was mostly because Geralt was used to distracting himself with his work. When he worked, he thought about the animals, nothing else. Sometimes the owners of his patients were almost a nuisance to him. However, sometimes they were the key to what their pets lacked. Somehow, though, these thoughts only brought Geralt back to Emhyr, especially as evening approached and his workday came to an end. The more the practice was getting emptier, the more his thoughts returned to the man who had been unduly preoccupying his thoughts lately.  
  
After the last patient and his relieved owner had left the practice and no house calls were pending, Geralt was seized by a strange restlessness. He felt like a wound-up toy that urgently needed to reach a destination before the energy disappeared again. However, the destination was not his home; that much was clear because even here, he still felt somehow agitated.  
There was only one cure for this inner turmoil. Geralt had barely arrived home when he reached for his phone, only to put it away again shortly after. Emhyr did not know his private number, and somehow he feared that he would not accept the call. Him, or his secretary, if he was still working for him at this hour. It was hard to see through how often and how long that guy hung around the house. Geralt picked up the practice phone, dialed, immediately regretted it, almost hung up, and then didn't. He listened for the dial tone and wondered what he should do if the secretary actually answered the phone. It was hardly customary for a _veterinarian_ to call at this hour.  
  
It rang for a long time. Where in this unbelievably large house was this damn telephone? Geralt was about to give up. He stood at the window, staring out into the darkness, watching the lights of the city far away, and forced himself not to walk around. Forced himself to just stand there and wait. Wait for that moment when…  
"Geralt."  
It was not a question; it was a statement, for of course, Emhyr recognized the number.  
Hearing his dark voice was both relieving and strangely tingling. Geralt even found himself tracing the tone of that voice for a moment. It was pleasing to listen to his name coming out of that mouth, but was there astonishment, or joy, or surprise in that voice?  
"Did you know who Yennefer is?" Geralt heard himself ask. "That she's my ex-wife?"  
"Excuse me?"  
Now there was clearly surprise in his voice. Geralt began to pace restlessly up and down again.  
  
"You should explain this to me," Emhyr said, once again calm.  
"Yes. I will. I want to see you."  
Now it was spoken, stated clearly for once.  
For a brief moment, there was silence on the other end, as if Emhyr was considering an appropriate response. Or as if he was somehow surprised - perhaps even pleased - by Geralt's sudden initiative. For when he answered, there was a hint of amusement in his voice.  
"If that is your wish, I shall be awaiting you."  
"No," Geralt answered quickly. "No. I want you to come here. I want you... to see how I live."  
What he didn't say was what lay behind those words: see what makes us different.  
Emhyr was silent again. His voice sounded strangely cautious when he finally said, "This is quite unusual, Geralt."  
The latter could not help but let out a short laugh.  
  
"Why is that _unusual_?"  
"It's just not that simple, Geralt."  
"Then explain it to me. You sound so mysterious. Tell me straight to my face if you don't want to see me."  
"That's not what this is about."  
Geralt fell silent. He felt he had said it all.  
Emhyr let another moment pass, then he made a noise.... had he sighed?  
"All right. It'll be an hour."  
Then, without another word or greeting, he hung up.  
Geralt stared dumbfounded at the phone in his hand. Why the hell did it take _an hour_?  
  
Geralt did not have much time to wonder. He looked around his living room in a slight panic and spent the time hastily putting things in order. Here, and in his bedroom - after all, you never know. The possible prospects were intoxicating, and he actually felt a bit like a hormone-addled teenager. Finally, he washed a few glasses, without quite knowing why - he had nothing at home but beer anyway, which he usually drank from the bottle. But the activity distracted him. Finally, from the small window above the kitchenette, he saw a car approaching. Actually, it was more of a sedan - the type that wants to appear simplistic in false modesty in order to radiate a higher elegance.  
It kind of fitted Emhyr. However, it was not him who got out of the car when it finally stopped.  
On the passenger side, some dark-clad, stick-thin guy exited the car. He did not go to the driver's side but opened one of the rear doors. Emhyr got out. The other man gestured toward the house, uttering something that Geralt could not understand because of the distance and the closed window. Geralt recognized the type: alert, attentive, wiry, and dangerous in case of need. Should it surprise him that Emhyr had a bodyguard - and a chauffeur, of course?  
  
Emhyr himself had a slightly skeptical look on his face, but that didn't mean much. He nodded, answered something, and instructed the man to get back into the car with a wave of his hand. The car, or rather its occupants, seemed to be waiting. Geralt hurried to the door, opened it - perhaps a little too vigorously - and found Emhyr somehow hesitating in front of it.  
"You must be one hell of a big shot," Geralt said, "Is your bodyguard going to wait here all night?"  
Emhyr, never at a loss for an answer, calmly replied, "I assume that won't be necessary."  
"You don't seem to think I'm dangerous," Geralt said with a grin. "Come in."  
He opened the door wide and stepped aside.  
"I didn't say that," Emhyr muttered as he walked past him.  
  
Inside, he looked around attentively, as was his nature, and as usual, it was impossible to tell how he was taking in his surroundings. Actually, Geralt could have imagined that. Did he really expect the man to strut around now and judge him according to how he lived?  
As if Emhyr had read his thoughts, he suddenly looked straight into his eyes and said, "I'm not interested in how you live. I am interested in you. I thought that much was clear by now."  
"I... Yes," Geralt heard himself say. "Sit down," he added. Only now did he notice that Emhyr was holding a bottle, which he suddenly held out to him, almost apologetically.  
"I don't have a decent wine cellar yet, but I thought you might like this."  
He then dropped almost casually onto the sofa. He continued to look around while Geralt stared in confusion at the bottle in his hand. It was wine, red wine, but he had no other idea about it.  
"You've gotten me drunk before," he said.  
"A bottle of wine will hardly be enough for that," Emhyr replied, amused. "By the way, I like you better sober."  
Geralt didn't know what to answer, stood around indecisively for a moment with the bottle in his hand, and finally set it down on the low coffee table.  
"I actually wanted to talk to you about something," he began, sitting down next to Emhyr.  
  
The latter looked at him attentively.  
"You mentioned your ex-wife on the phone."  
Now it was up to Geralt to watch the other carefully. He was not a bad judge of character, not at all. But with this man, it was unusually difficult. Emhyr was able to maintain this businesslike facade whenever, and for however long he wanted.  
"You didn't know your client was my ex-wife?"  
"Do you think I have an army of spies constantly feeding me this kind of information? No, I actually didn't know. Why is that so important to you?"  
"Shouldn't it?" returned Geralt. "Don't you think it's a strange coincidence?"  
"What, exactly, that your ex-wife would reappear after you found yourself a lover?" remarked Emhyr calmly as he reached for the bottle. "Corkscrew?"  
Irritated, Geralt turned, headed to his small kitchen counter, and rummaged through the drawers.  
Returning with the corkscrew in his hand, he replied, "I haven't _looked_ for a lover."  
"Interesting phrasing," Emhyr replied, taking the utensil from his hand and opening the bottle briskly. "Glasses?"  
Geralt shook his head. "I don't have any wine glasses at all," he admitted, picking up two regular glasses.  
"Well," Emhyr muttered skeptically, pouring wine into the obviously inadequate glasses - it seemed to bother him more than the undoubtedly equally inadequate surroundings - and handing one of them to Geralt.  
"You may not have been looking for it," he then continued, somewhat cryptically. "I just don't see what that would change. I don't suppose you told her about your inclination?"  
"An _inclination _," Geralt muttered, taking a clearly too generous sip. "I don't know what it is at all yet, but it sounds pretty pejorative that way."  
Emhyr's mouth curled into a slight smile.  
"We're talking about something that has defined my entire life," he replied, rather seriously, contrary to his slight smirk. "Do you really think I would be derogatory about it when someone like you is still searching?"  
"Searching for what?"  
Emhyr shrugged, sat back, and took a sip. He seemed incredebly relaxed, almost enjoying the conversation. Or was he gloating over the fact that Geralt was having his difficulties with it?  
"For something that is missing," he simply replied. "But, to return to the original topic: No, I didn't know about your ex-wife. In fact, this is purely a business matter. I don't want to go into too much detail, but I need her to help me close a matter from the past."  
His whole body language and emphasis made it clear that - for now - he would say no more about it.  
  
Geralt had no reason not to believe him. During their last conversation, Yennefer had not seemed to know that her client had slept with her ex-husband. It was still a strange thought, even more so the idea that she would find out about it.  
"Did you honestly just call me to find out if I knew about your ex-wife?"  
There was an amused twinkle in Emhyr's eyes that seemed somewhat familiar to Geralt by now.  
"And if this were the case," he replied, "why did you come anyway? What with it being such a hassle, chauffeur and bodyguard and all…"  
Emhyr looked at him thoughtfully.  
"I had a feeling it was important to you."  
Geralt was silent for a moment, then replied, "Indeed it is."  
"But it's not only about my business meeting, isn't it?"  
Was this mere banter? It was impossible for Geralt to see behind it. He decided he didn't care. Ever since Emhyr had entered Geralt's humble abode, he had been watching him closely. Had followed his reactions. But now, sitting right next to him, feeling that the other man emitted a strange warmth, he wondered if it mattered. Whether it would have made a difference if he had acted differently. But Geralt had to admit that probably not even openly radiated arrogance would have repelled him - because he was simply attracted to him too much.  
  
So much so that part of his mind just seemed to shut off. He put down his glass, leaned forward, put his hands on Emhyr's shoulders and kissed him.__

[](https://abload.de/image.php?img=tumblr_ca31be612bf787s1k6e.png)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart above by [Artwinsdraws](https://twitter.com/artwinsdraws) ❤️


	17. Do not trip on inhibitions that will only waste my time

The kiss was met with determination, suggesting Emhyr had been expecting it. And why shouldn't he, after all, Geralt had invited him - perhaps even under a pretext. The thought flashed briefly through Geralt's mind. Maybe he had subconsciously called him just to have sex. If that was the case, his subconscious simply knew his wishes very well.  
Emhyr also seemed to know them. Whenever it had happened, but now his hands were on Geralt's back, wandering lower. In no time, he had once again taken the lead and dominated the kiss. If Geralt had thought he had some sort of home-field advantage in his own house, he was wrong about that too. Not that it bothered him much. It didn't matter if he kissed or was kissed; it only mattered that it was those very lips: soft and firm at the same time, and with the power to send veritable jolts of electricity through the rest of his body.  
  
Emhyr’s hands also contained this ability - the power to make Geralt forget everything around him. Without ever breaking the kiss, they first stroked his back, subsequently playing with his hair. Removing the tie from his hair was one of the first things he usually did when he got home. Perhaps it was a strange quirk that he wore his hair so long - after all, its unusual color was then only more noticeable. He liked it that way, and Emhyr seemed to like it, too. Geralt felt one of his hands on the back of his neck, where it ran through his hair and at the same time exerted gentle pressure on his skin. A sound escaped from his mouth that seemed to amuse his counterpart.  
The mouth parted from his, and Emhyr murmured, "Do wolves purr?"  
Geralt, with half-closed eyes and slightly swollen lips, whispered, "They're more like dogs than cats."  
"But I don't hear you growling."  
"Maybe that wasn't enough to make me growl."  
The twinkle in Emhyr's eyes was unmistakable at this answer. He stood up, pulling Geralt with him, and replied, "I haven't seen much of your home yet. Maybe you should show me your bedroom."  
  
"Too far," Geralt muttered, pulling Emhyr to him again, much more determined now. He wanted that mouth back, wanted that feeling back that had just spiraled through him. His grip was firm, a first indication that he could be a solid rock when it mattered. He didn't suspect it, but Emhyr could take so much more from the grip of those hands: that he was reliable, that if he admitted it to himself, he _certainly_ knew what he wanted. That he _could_ lead. In short, that there was something in Geralt that had not been obvious until now. Perhaps even that he could rival him in many ways. That was an exciting thought, albeit one for the future.  
  
For now, he left it at surprising the man again - for that was still one of his most captivating traits: how easy it was to break through his facade and surprise him. With deft fingers, the belt on Geralt's jeans was quickly loosened, and a moment later, the hands had slipped inside and encircled his buttocks.  
"Whatever pleases you," Emhyr whispered in Geralt's ear after pulling him even closer. "Your bed, your couch, your carpet - the wall, if you must."  
The slight arousal that had already taken possession of Geralt increased abruptly, and even as he processed the fact that he was clearly into dirty talking, exploratory fingers began to knead his butt.  
"But," Emhyr continued with remarkable calmness in his voice, "I demand an answer. Tell me what you want. Where you want it."  
That he _demanded_ it did not escape Geralt, nor did Emhyr escape the shudder that ran through the other man’s body.  
  
The hands withdrew to his regret, but only to clasp his face, as if Emhyr was trying to force him to focus. Or simply to look at him, for his eyes, now very dark again, looked inquiringly. Geralt was almost past the point where he could still give a coherent answer. Although his pants were loosened, he clearly felt his hardness pressing against them. They were standing so close together now that Emhyr had to feel it, too - and in return, it was easy to notice that this brief skirmish had not been without consequences on the latter's side, either. Geralt opened his mouth, ready for an answer - or for another kiss, what difference did it make. At that moment, there was a vibration in his back pocket.  
  
He winced. A smile appeared on Emhyr's edgy face, making his expression appear soft.  
"The practice phone?" he asked. "I think you should..."  
"I should," Geralt grumbled as he pulled the mobile from his pocket. It was indeed the practice phone; he had forgotten to put it down. But it made no difference whether it was on the table or whether he had it with him; he would answer it no matter what.  
Glancing at the display, he frowned: an unknown number. Fearing new trouble - and because the mood was severely disturbed - his greeting was rather curt, almost unfriendly.  
"Geralt?"  
A familiar voice. And certainly indeed the trouble he had feared. Geralt turned away from Emhyr, taking a few steps into the room.  
"Lambert," he said quietly, "what in the world…"  
"Listen," Lambert sputtered on the other end, "I tried to give him the money back, I really did. He took it, but then he said it wasn't enough. That I should learn my lesson, and..."  
"Slow down," Geralt interrupted him as he pressed the phone close to his ear. "I can barely understand you. What happened?"  
"He wants the same amount once more."  
  
Geralt was silent for a moment. He looked around briefly, and saw that Emhyr was watching him intently, even though he had sat down again, holding his glass casually in his hand.  
Quietly, he replied, "I can't give you that much again, Lambert."  
"I don't want you to," snapped the other, "but the guy knows I didn't scrape this together on my own. Don't worry, I didn't tell him where I got the money. But he's sure I can raise the amount."  
"Why?" asked Geralt suspiciously. "Why is he so sure?"  
"He has my girlfriend. Keira. I told you about her."  
"What do you mean he _has_ her?"  
Geralt had raised his voice angrily, although he tried hard to pull himself together.  
"What do you think I mean," Lambert yelled into his phone. "That he kidnapped her!"  
"Didn't you say she was a cop? He should get in more trouble with that than you," Geralt returned, actually seeing some ray of hope in this. Still, things looked like shit, worse than he had thought. Lambert still had a knack for getting himself into trouble. But this was clearly beyond the pale. This kind of crap they had left behind many years ago, but Lambert still didn't seem to have learned a damn thing.  
  
"I said she is... well, I may have exaggerated, she's just kind of a private investigator, sort of."  
"And it's quite certain that he kidnapped her?"  
Lambert sighed impatiently and nervously at the same time.  
"I assume so," he replied. "After I gave him the money this morning, he wanted more. I told him he could forget it, that he should be glad he got the money back at all, and that he should never call me again about such a shitty job. Then I left. In the afternoon, he called and said he had a little fist pledge to convince me to go along with my debt. I laughed at him; that's when he told me to try calling Keira. Well, I did; she doesn't answer, hasn't for hours."  
"So he could be bluffing," Geralt replied.  
Lambert was silent for a moment, then said, "Maybe. Maybe he's just trying to scare me. But it's also possible he has something else planned. I went to her house, she's not there, and no one has seen her since last night."  
"Shit."  
"That's right."  
  
Geralt thought that all this might not have happened if he had not been giving Lambert the money in the first place. Apparently, the latter had fallen to the sort of unscrupulous small-time monsters who tried to tap a well until it ran dry - at any price. Lambert was notoriously broke, which was precisely why he had taken the job in the first place. Geralt should have thought of that - but his desire to close the deal had obviously clouded his mind. Kidnapping someone was a big deal, though, but perhaps someone who smuggled weapons was long ahead of such morals. And now Geralt was in the middle of it, because his own morals told him that he was complicit in the whole thing - regardless of whether his rational mind thought that idea ridiculous.  
"You have to help me," Lambert urged.  
"Fine, but how?"  
Lambert sighed again, perhaps a little helplessly.  
"That's the question," he replied. "I want to find her before anything happens. There's no doubt that I'm not going to get that money somehow. So I need to find her, and we need to lay low for a while. In hiding, in another city. I don't know. But first I have to find her."  
"Yennefer," Geralt said softly, after a thought had suddenly struck him.  
"I thought about it too, but I didn't know if you were still in contact with her," Lambert replied with a hint of hope.  
"As it happens, I do," Geralt reluctantly admitted. It might not be entirely true, and he didn't know if she felt like helping him after he had practically stood her up. But her skills would come in handy here.  
"I'll call her," he promised. "Then I'll get back to you."  
"All right, but hurry," Lambert muttered before hanging up.  
  
Geralt turned around, noticed Emhyr looking at him questioningly, and sighed.  
"Listen," he began, "I have one more call to make, and then I may have to go again."  
"That sounds like a throw-out," the other man replied with a smirk.  
At another time, Geralt might have actually found that amusing, but not now. Emhyr saw him remain unusually serious, and frowned.  
"That didn't sound like an emergency."  
"In a way it did, just not an animal one. Listen, I hope I can tell you all about it someday. It's going to be a long story, and certainly not one I'm particularly proud of. But right now, I have to go help an old friend. I'm sorry."  
"Well, I guess postponed is not abandoned," Emhyr said as he stood up.  
"Do you want me to take you home?"  
"That won't be necessary. I have a chauffeur for that, remember?"  
He was already reaching for his phone, typing a short message.  
"Already done. Now come here," he ordered, imperiously holding out a hand.  
  
Although Geralt's thoughts were on Lambert's (and now probably his own) problem and he was already tensing up inside, he followed the instruction as if pulled by an invisible string. The embrace that followed restored some of the security that the call had taken away, as did the kiss that felt like a premonition. As if this were not a goodbye, but only a brief interruption. Geralt wished it really were.


	18. Burn it to the ground and trip the wire

As soon as he had said goodbye - with some regret - to Emhyr, Geralt called Yennefer and told her everything he knew. It was basically very little. In the telling, it sounded strange, almost ridiculous, and above all rather vague. After he had reported everything, Yennefer was silent for a while. In fact, after some time, the silence became uncomfortable, and he regretted the call - but he had already, even before dialing her number.  
"You're asking me for help?" she finally said.  
In her way of turning a question into a statement, she was surprisingly similar to Emhyr, Geralt thought. He wondered if he would find more similarities if he thought about it. And whether he really wanted to know the answer.  
"Yes," he simply replied.  
He had a feeling she would consent. And that her willingness would be linked to a condition, perhaps an unspoken one. Maybe a favor that she would call in at some point. The thought was paranoid, and he realized that the whole story was getting to him more than he thought.  
"All right, give me Lambert's number. That old fool really manages to still get himself into trouble," Yennefer finally said in a contemptuous tone. "I can try to trace his girlfriend's phone. There's not much more I can do from here, Geralt."  
"I know," he replied, though he really had no idea about this, but her goodwill relieved him. "And thank you."  
Geralt heard her snort dismissively on the other end, then she hung up.  
  
His momentary relief turned back to uneasiness after a short while because there was no news for some time. It was close to midnight, and he almost fell asleep in front of the TV, providing a steady background of noise and thus distraction, when the phone rang and startled him.  
"We know where she is," Lambert said instead of a greeting, almost yelling.  
"We?" Geralt couldn't help saying.  
"Your ex knows her stuff," Lambert replied without elaborating. "I'll send you the coordinates where we'll meet. Hurry."  
He hung up without giving Geralt a chance to point out anew that this was a stupid idea.  
  
He got it when he finally met Lambert.  
His motorcycle was parked at the end of an uncrowded street, in one of those typical residential areas where the dwindling number of houses was in proportional contrast to their inhabitants' wealth.  
"This is not a small fish," Geralt said after getting out of his car. He pointed vaguely to the surrounding area, where behind high hedges or stone walls, a few houses could be inadequately seen, barely reached by the glow of the streetlights.  
"I don't know what you've gotten yourself into, and I'm afraid you don't know yourself. But this is no petty criminal, Lambert."  
His old friend chewed nervously on an unlit cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth.  
"Looks like it," he muttered, spitting out the cigarette - as if he feared the opportunity to use it would never come anyway.  
"This is out of our league," Geralt said. "The house is probably guarded. Or it has an alarm system or whatever. How are you going to get in there? Surely not by force of arms, you know I don't do that, and..."  
"Oh, shut up," Lambert snapped at him. He was clearly nervous, which was bad because if they were really going to pull this off, they needed a cool head. But it was insane, and Geralt would have loved to headbutt Lambert and beat some sense into the man.  
  
"Lambert..."  
"No, now listen to me. This is going to work. In, out, just like the old days, don't you remember?"  
Geralt frowned.  
"This isn't a war zone."  
"Well, yeah, but guess what, we're freeing a hostage anyway. And you're good at it."  
He had indeed been once, though Geralt preferred not to think about that particular part of his past just now. Or, ever.  
"We knew what to expect then," he replied dismissively.  
"Really? Every time? Don't bullshit me."  
Lambert looked at him frankly, but there was no joy in his gaze at evoking those painful memories. On the contrary. He shared those memories, and he didn't want them any more than Geralt did.  
And he was right. Each of them - all three of them, which they still were at that time - had been on solo missions. High-risk operations for which any other soldier would have been decorated with medals like a Christmas goose at the end of his service, should he survive.  
This did not apply to them and the unique circumstances under which they had been recruited — something else they both hated to think back on.  
  
"Listen," Lambert continued in a conciliatory tone, "violence may not be entirely avoidable. But you and I, we know how to do it. We're not killing anyone; it's just collateral damage, nothing will actually happen to them."  
Geralt certainly saw it differently, but he kept his mouth shut.  
"There's a guy outside near the entrance," Lambert explained. "Unarmed, probably just decoration, as a deterrent or to show off, you know. What's inside, who knows. But trust me, he's not that big a shot."  
Geralt thought about it for a moment.  
"But why did he bring your girlfriend into his house?" he asked. "It seems strange to me. That's the kind of thing you usually leave to your henchmen; you don't make sure it can be traced directly to your own home..."  
Lambert shrugged.  
"Maybe he doesn't even live here. Maybe the house belongs to a friend."  
It sounded unconvincing, and Geralt had other concerns.  
  
"What if he only has her phone? I mean, why would he kidnap your friend and leave her the mobile?"  
Lambert blinked. It was apparent he hadn't thought of that.  
"Holy shit, I don't know that," he finally snapped. "Are we going in or not?"  
Geralt puffed out an annoyed breath.  
"We'll abort as soon as this becomes dangerous in any way," he said firmly. "That's best for your friend, too, if she's actually there."  
"Fine," grumbled Lambert.  
"One more thing," Geralt added, though Lambert immediately rolled his eyes. "I've got a lot to lose here, Lamb."  
That he fell back on using the other man's old nickname for the moment made even himself wonder.   
"My license, for example. If anyone recognizes me..."  
Lambert shook his head.  
"That's all right. Like I hadn't thought of that."  
His grin didn't bode well. He pulled something out of his jacket pocket that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be two black balaclavas.  
"You can't be serious," Geralt groaned.  
Lambert only grinned wider and handed Geralt one of the masks.  
"Standard equipment for motorcyclists," he replied innocently.  
  
They approached the entrance to the house, which lay brightly lit behind a gate and a short driveway, perhaps fifty paces from the road. On closer inspection, the area was neat, but by no means as prosperous as Geralt had initially expected. Neither did the criminal with whom Lambert had become involved have video surveillance, nor any kind of electronic lock or other visible security measures. This, of course, was good for Geralt and Lambert, because the wrought-iron gate alone was not much of a challenge for them. The guard was making his rounds and barely paying attention to the entrance, so it was a piece of cake to break down the gate and slip inside.  
  
The area was not particularly large and well laid out. Two swanky luxury cars were parked near the house, which offered them enough protection after a short sprint. Huddled behind one of the cars, Geralt cautiously peered through the passenger window and watched the guard, who was now returning to the house entrance with a bored shuffle. Geralt gave Lambert a few hand signals, and he nodded. Then he lifted a handful of pebbles from the ground and threw them toward the house, a good distance from the door, where they hit the ground noisily in the night silence. The guard, alert enough after all, immediately turned his head in the appropriate direction and looked suspiciously. Then he disappointed Geralt's expectations - which had been overly optimistic anyway, considering all the circumstances - and pulled a pistol from inside his jacket.  
 _Shit_ , Geralt thought and glanced at Lambert. Lambert responded with another hand gesture. Geralt cursed him inwardly - him, himself, everything. But in the end, there was no denying that this was a standard situation they both knew well enough. Lambert had half risen and was stooping towards the entrance. Geralt, for his part, approached the guard from behind, who was looking attentively, but perhaps a little nervously, still in the wrong direction.  
  
He might have been a bit out of practice - the other actually managed to turn around a split second before the attack. But the surprised look on his face didn't last long because Geralt hadn't forgotten anything. He was already behind the guard, had put his arm around his neck, found a particular point, and squeezed. It was a matter of seconds; the man rolled his eyes, the weapon slipped from his limp hands. The whole body went limp, and Geralt carefully lowered him to the ground. He kicked the gun under one of the cars and quickly looked around. Lambert was already at the door, and he swiftly followed him.  
  
The door security measures turned out to be a bit tricky, but they weren't much of a problem in the end. This had always been Lambert's specialty. However, Geralt felt nervousness rise upon him. They didn't know what was waiting for them inside, and they had to hurry; the guard's unconsciousness wouldn't last forever. Finally, the door was open, and Lambert carefully pushed it open. At the same time, the two of them kept in a blind spot - in case anyone happened to be standing behind the entrance. But the hallway was empty, as a quick glance showed after a few seconds.  
  
The house was furnished with the kind of safe tastelessness that upstarts often displayed when they came into money and tried to imitate real wealth and elegance. It was brightly lit everywhere, although it was completely quiet. There was nothing to indicate that anyone was home at all. However, that was probably deceptive, and Geralt continued to be cautious - moreover, his nerves were strained to the utmost anyway.  
In the hallway, a staircase led up, and on this level, there were three doors. Two of them were wide open, one of which revealed a large room. Only a comprehensive window and a few pieces of furniture could be seen from their position. It looked like the living room, so Geralt and Lambert pressed along the wall near the open door to cautiously peek inside. Although a cozy fire was lit in a fireplace on one of the walls, the room was empty. On their left side, they had had to carefully push past the second open door. This was the kitchen. It, too, had seemed empty at first, but at that very moment, a man stepped out of the door. He was dressed similarly to the first guard and was holding - what seemed unintentionally ridiculous - a hot dog in one of his hands.  
  
The man raised his eyes, saw the two of them, dropped his midnight snack, and reached to his side to draw his gun. Lambert was faster. He literally lunged at the second guard, and one karate chop to his neck later, he too was on the ground.  
"Shit, Lambert," Geralt hissed angrily, "you should have broken that habit twenty years ago."  
"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Lambert returned, "I haven't _broken_ anything."  
A quick glance into the kitchen showed that it was now empty as well.  
"They must be upstairs. We have to hurry," Lambert said.  
Geralt had no choice but to agree. He was already in way too deep. There was no turning back now, and he had done enough damage in a few minutes to ruin not only his reputation, but probably his entire life if anyone actually figured out he was in on this. There was only one thing left to do now, and that was to hope for a reasonably happy conclusion. And the vague hope that Lambert would then really take off for a while - and that he wouldn't hear from him again so soon.  
"So up, quick," he said and was already on his way to the stairs.  
  
As swiftly and quietly as possible, they climbed the stairs. At the top, there was a wide corridor with several doors. For a moment, they stood indecisively at the top of the stairs, looking around as if that would be enough to find out what was hidden behind the doors. But the decision was taken from them: behind one of those doors, a short burst of female laughter suddenly sounded softly, but still audible.  
Lambert and Geralt stared at each other as if electrified. Geralt could think of no reason why the woman - if it was Lambert's girlfriend - would laugh, except that this was quite common in situations of great stress. Lambert was already at the corresponding door, almost directly opposite the stairs. He yanked on the handle, kicking the wood of the door at the same time. The room behind it turned out to be a lavishly and tastelessly decorated bedroom. A man stood in the middle of the room with his back to them, turning in surprise when Lambert barged in so rudely. Opposite him stood a woman - _clearly too pretty for Lambert_ , Geralt thought oddly - whose frightened face seemed to indicate the situation's dangerousness.  
  
"Shit, what's...," the man began. He was a nondescript guy, dressed in way too colorful and flashy clothes, the kind of man you'd think the tastelessness of the house would fit.  
Lambert didn't waste a word; he lunged at the man, knocked him to the ground, and silenced him with a swift blow that would turn out harmless in the long run. Then he tore the balaclava from his head, held out his hand, urging, "Come, quickly!"  
"Lambert! What the hell?" the woman cursed, quickly recovering from her surprise and horror.  
Geralt preferred to say nothing and keep his mask on. He had a strange feeling about this.  
"We don't have much time," Lambert insisted. "We're leaving, now."  
Impatiently, he grabbed his girlfriend's hand and pulled her along.  
"What's going on here?" she nagged. On Geralt, she made a less fearful impression than perhaps she should have.  
"Come on, honey, we've got to get off, lay low for a while," Lambert hastily explained after pulling the somewhat reluctant woman through the door and nearly pushing her down the stairs. Geralt followed the two, wondering if he was missing something here.  
"Lambert, this isn't...," Keira said, but he didn't let her finish.  
"Look, I've messed with this guy more than enough now. I can't get enough money, you know that."  
"And you can't think of anything better than kidnapping me?"  
" _He_ kidnapped you first," Lambert grumbled as they hurried to leave the house.  
"Sure," she quickly replied. "But..."

Her voice changed now, and Geralt didn't like it. From the minute he met her, she had seemed like a tough woman to him, the kind that could definitely handle a guy - even in a somewhat ambiguous situation as they had found her. Now, however, her voice took on the tone of an insecure girl, and she said, "But this is dangerous. He'll find us for sure."  
"That's why we're going underground," Lambert declared as if he had to explain something to a child, while Geralt felt as if he were underestimating the woman here. Or she was playing dumb on purpose. But that was probably just a paranoid thought sprouting from his tense nerves. They left the house as they had come: boldly through the front door, swiftly, quietly, and carefully.  
  
The guard that Geralt had taken out right at the beginning was still lying on the ground, but they hurried anyway and almost ran through the front gate. Behind it, they stopped only briefly. Lambert squeezed Geralt's hand, babbled something about owing him something, and urged his girlfriend onto his motorcycle. Geralt kept silent, too confused and too stunned by everything that had happened, especially by the fact that they had come out of this completely unharmed. As if in a dream, he quickly got behind his car's wheel and started the engine so fast that he almost stalled it. He didn't look back, but he heard the bike being started when he was already driving away. Geralt caught himself driving much too fast and slowed down - after all, he was in a residential area. Hilarious that he thought of such a thing after what they had just done.  
  
It wasn't until he was almost approaching the city that he noticed he was still wearing the balaclava, and he almost wrenched the steering wheel as he ripped it off his head.


	19. Oh my beautiful disaster

Geralt was not the type to bury himself in brooding. Still, the past few days had undeniably provided some material for worry. He could only hope that Lambert would get far enough away until somehow, someday, time would let the dust settle. Geralt still had doubts gnawing at him, although he tried hard to act normal in the following days without continually looking over his shoulder like a hunted deer. Something about the events still struck him as odd, but he couldn't put his finger on it. More importantly, he could only hope that no one would draw the connection to him. Geralt had thought about it thoroughly, but nobody was likely to have actually seen him together with Lambert. Moreover, Lambert was not the type to go around, telling people that he had met an old friend again. Surely he had also, like Geralt himself, spread the veil of silence over a particular part of his past. What they had both done in that house were crimes that no court would excuse with the late effects of war trauma. On the contrary, every judge and jury would come to the conclusion that they were basically killing machines, even if no one had come to any significant harm. It didn't even occur to him that the chance of being sued by a criminal was probably as unlikely as anything else.  
  
The rest of the week passed as if nothing had happened, and at some point, Geralt decided to bury the events deep in some corner of his memory. He knew how to do that. He treated his animal patients, endured the receptionist's vocal outbursts, tried to be patient with the pet owner's and just lived along. Time passed, and the closer Sunday came, the more clearly something else came to the fore: the thought that he missed Emhyr. Somewhere inside him he felt that he would not - _could not_ \- tell him what had happened either. Not only because it was too connected to his past, but also because he was too ashamed of what he had done. Certainly, he had helped an old friend, but in what way and at what price? It would have been relieving to share those sorrows with someone, and maybe part of him even wanted Emhyr to be the one to tell about it. Another part wanted exactly that not to happen.  
  
So he thought, or _imagined,_ who knew, that his desire to see this man again had mostly to do with feelings that were below the belt. Geralt had no other name for these feelings than passion, and for now, that was enough. He didn't need more things to ponder. Still, there was no denying that he looked forward to their meetings for more than just the prospect of sex. Geralt found that he enjoyed each other's company. Aside from the still disconcerting subtle attractiveness Emhyr radiated to him, he liked their conversations. He had opened up more and more during their rides - at first, they had been silent, though it hadn't been an awkward silence, more a mutual agreement that they enjoyed this. At some point, they had begun to talk about innocuous, completely arbitrary things. Emhyr's eloquence (and the fact that he actually had something to talk about) was pleasantly different from the rest of the town's residents. It was probably what Yennefer had always aspired to - and perhaps one of the reasons he had disappointed her expectations, and not just with his choice of career. And yes, he liked the touches, even the conflicting feelings they triggered in him, as well as everything else they did. There was no denying he wanted more of it.

In any case, he looked forward to Sunday in eager anticipation for many reasons. When the time came, he found himself standing in front of the mirror longer than usual, devoting more time than he normally would to his hair and shaving. Did he dress up? Probably. Did he even take more time to care for Roach, which was rather silly? Maybe. He felt good when he appeared at the estate that Sunday; almost cheerful, if his basic attitude had not always been one of caution, and cheerfulness was not one of his most prominent traits.  
  
He found the yard empty as usual. After leading his horse to the stables, he noticed Cirilla in the pasture, unsaddled. The stable master was nowhere to be seen, and it wasn't Emhyr's style to be late with anything - apart from the one time he'd been understandably upset about the anniversary of his daughter's death. Geralt only hoped that nothing had happened - now or in the past - that would cause his week to become even more complicated than it already had been. The thought might be somewhat selfish, but he couldn't stop it. It was as if he had come expecting some sort of _reward_ for the excitement of the past few days - which was ridiculous, after all, he wasn't even allowed to let on what had been bothering him lately. Following an impulse, Geralt led Roach to the pasture as well - she had already become restless when she had spotted the other horse anyway.  
  
While the horses greeted each other almost exuberantly with mutual neighing, Geralt went to the stables. Indeed, he found Emhyr there. He was wearing his usual riding clothes but seemed to be standing indecisively in front of Cirilla's saddle.  
"It's not like you to be late," Geralt said.  
Emhyr turned to him and replied, "I've been thinking."  
"That's pretty much like you, though," Geralt muttered. Then, he crossed the distance between them with a few steps and surprised the other man with an almost fierce kiss.  
  
"That, in turn, doesn't look much like you," Emhyr said quietly at one point. He gently pushed Geralt a bit away, holding him by the shoulders, looking intently at his face. "Is something wrong?"  
Geralt was aware that he generally had little control over his features. Still, he had not expected Emhyr to read him like an open book. However, the latter could have no idea of what moved him. And Geralt was not bad at bluffing.  
"That's what I was going to ask you," he returned. "Your horse is not saddled. But you don't look like anything is keeping you from riding today?"  
"Frankly, I got a little distracted, thinking of you and our somewhat hasty parting the other day," Emhyr said, while he abruptly grasped Geralt, pulling him close.  
"I had to help a friend," Geralt replied, which was no lie.  
"I know, and I don't even want to know the details," Emhyr murmured as his hands slowly roamed over Geralt's back. His mouth was now very close to one ear, and both the warm breath and the next words made Geralt shiver.  
"You're distracting me," he whispered. "I couldn't think about this ride anymore without thinking about another kind of ride…"  
"Filthy," Geralt returned.  
"Exactly."  
  
They smiled at each other, that particular kind of knowing smile as if they shared a secret. Meanwhile, Emhyr's hands were on Geralt's butt as if the past days had never existed, and they would just pick up where they had left off. But there was still too much fabric in between, and even though Emhyr was tranquility itself, Geralt felt an impatience rising inside him.  
For his part, he began to let his hands wander restlessly on Emhyr's body; he tugged and urged with one hand, until he had slipped his fingers under the elegant riding jacket, until he could finally overcome the shirt underneath and feel skin. His other hand tried to loosen the jacket at the same time, which proved difficult, for the garment was tight-fitted, and his impatience was grand. At the same time, Emhyr, apparently fueled by his sudden burst of passion, had recaptured Geralt's mouth, and his kiss was no less passionate, though less hurried.  
  
Distracted, Geralt fiddled aimlessly with Emhyr's clothes. His fingers came across something unexpected in a pocket, and although the expectant tongue in his mouth made his knees go weak, he wrapped his fingers around the object. His eyes widened as he realized what he was touching, and he pulled it out of the pocket.  
Breathlessly, he released his mouth from Emhyr's and held the thing in front of his face.  
"Who brings _lube_ on a horseback ride?"  
"I have condoms in my back pocket," Emhyr calmly returned. "Just in case..."  
"In case you get a chance to give _riding_ a different meaning today?"  
Geralt did not know where the boldness of these words came from. Perhaps it was merely the certainty that he wanted Emhyr more than anything right now, and that this had the potential to displace the worries in the back of his mind.  
"So, you were going to," he continued as he pressed his body provocatively close to the other man's, "ride off into the woods somewhere and then drag me into a bush, were you?"  
"I imagined," Emhyr countered, as his breath brushed the back of Geralt's neck, his mouth slowly seeking for that certain spot, "that you would quite willingly allow yourself to be pulled into the bushes. For that matter, there's an old hunting lodge out there."  
"So, what stopped you?" muttered Geralt, closing his eyes as Emhyr found the spot and stroked it with his tongue.  
The answer was basically obvious, but it came surprisingly confident and honest.  
"Impatience and indecision. I wasn't sure I wanted to wait anymore."  
Geralt glanced behind him, where a small window could be seen looking out onto the pasture.  
"Well, the horses are busy - where is the stable master?"  
"He’s not here on Sundays."  
"Looks like you've thought of everything," Geralt replied huskyly, and he began to gently push Emhyr in one direction as if to lead him in a dance.

His destination was a specific spot at the barn's end, a small open area with a little pile of hay. Emhyr was not used to not being the one in charge, and Geralt felt some muscle tension under his hands as he gently but firmly pushed him forward. Yet, that was precisely his goal: to take the lead this one time. It was necessary for Emhyr to give up control for this; he seemed to suspect what Geralt was up to, and he seemed to be wanting it. Still, a certain tenseness was palpable. But now Geralt was on a roll; he would not stop. On the contrary, his audacity increased - when he had him where he wanted him, he pushed Emhyr backward onto the haystack. It was not a deep and mostly a comparatively soft fall, and yet the other's eyes widened in surprise. Still, Geralt thought he detected a kind of thrill, which he shared. He continued to fiddle with Emhyr's clothes, eventually removing the jacket and finally stripping him off the shirt underneath. It wasn't news to Emhyr that hay wasn't all that soft, but individual prickly stalks in his back still made him a little uneasy.  
"Maybe we should go inside after all," he muttered. But Geralt had long since been about to pull off his pants.  
"Too late to chicken out," he said with a grin. "You were expecting a ride. You're going to get one."


	20. But, today, you'll be the master or the slave

The clothes gradually disappeared, and with them all doubts. The stable door was wide open, and for a brief moment Geralt wondered where the bodyguard might be. The chauffeur, the bodyguard, whatever personnel were in the house at the time - what if one of them happened to pass by here? Oddly enough, the thought of suddenly being surprised was somehow stimulating. Emhyr had noticed his look as well as the sudden hesitation.  
"There is no one around," he assured him.  
His eyes had taken on that very definite twinkle, and he leaned back, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible in that pile of dried grass, folding his arms behind his head. His gaze became challenging, and although by now he was lying completely naked in a mound of piled hay, he again appeared like he was in control.  
He sounded amused as he stated, "I think you forgot something."  
"Huh?" Geralt looked at him in confusion.  
"You're wearing too much."  
Yes, Emhyr clearly had the upper hand, even now. As he lay there, naked, half-hard and expectant, Geralt couldn't wait to get rid of his own clothes.  
Emhyr's looks alone seemed to undress him, and he clearly seemed to like what he saw - even if that was just a hasty attempt to remove as many garments as possible at once.  
  
"Much better," Emhyr said when they were finally both naked, surrounded by fragrant hay and scattered clothing. His voice had taken on that specific dark tone, reserved for those special, intimate moments - a voice, Geralt now realized, that he had also particularly longed for.  
"Now come here."  
This order bore no delay, and Geralt knelt beside him, bent down, sought, and found his mouth.   
Emhyr's hand shot up, gripped the back of his neck, and set the course for that kiss - tender-seeking for just a moment, then firm, almost hard.  
"Come closer," he whispered as he let go of him, and Geralt climbed over him, placing both knees next to Emhyr's sides. He was now almost sitting on top of him, clearly aware that his butt was very close to Emhyr's member. Only now did he actually realize what he was about to do. What he had announced, _promised_ , so to speak. Now that he was kneeling above this man, feeling his inquiring gaze upon him, he felt a tingle of his rational mind come forward.  
  
Emhyr's hands settled on his hips, and he looked up at him with that clear, sure gaze.  
"It's just one more thing you've never done before," he said without any hint of sarcasm or teasing. "We're taking it slow."  
His right hand rested on Geralt's back, gently pushing him down until he was lying with his upper body on Emhyr. The kiss that followed was soothing as well as reassuring, and Geralt's mind shut down again to let his body take over. It was pleasant to lie on Emhyr like this, to feel his skin, his fingers describing extended circles on Geralt's back. He lost himself in the kiss and the touch until he felt that all this seemed not only tremendously familiar but also arousing.  
  
For a while, he let Emhyr take the lead, willingly and with pleasure, just like all the times before. It was the kind of release that marked the perfect end to a stressful week. The type of forgetting that, just for a moment, made everything better. The world would not change, the problems would not disappear. But at least for a moment, it wouldn't matter. So he rubbed his skin against the other's skin, buried his mouth in the pit of the other's neck, sucked in his scent, and mixed his own with it.  
Around them, there was nothing but the rustling of hay and their own breathing. The occasional snort and neigh from the pasture seemed very distant, the stone walls suppressing any other sound.   
In between the kisses and touches, Emhyr suddenly groped around in the pile of clothes.  
"You'll need plenty of this," he said, holding the lube in his hands. It could have been a somewhat embarrassing moment, but somehow, it wasn't - it just seemed like the natural next step.  
"First for yourself," he continued. "I'll show you. Relax."  
  
Some of the tube's contents ended up on Emhyr's fingers, and he muttered, "Just stay like that."  
Seconds later, Geralt felt him at his entrance, very playful, very softly.  
The first finger went in without resistance, and Emhyr's eyes showed a strange mixture of pride and affirmation.  
"Very good," he murmured, and his free hand slid up and down Geralt's back almost tenderly as he continued to fix him with his penetrating gaze.  
The second finger followed quickly, though not quite so lightly; a sort of delicate approach, an attempt, a kind of foretaste. It was now impossible to miss, not only from his eyes, that he took pleasure in what he was doing. His erection brushed against Geralt's stomach, and all this caused renewed impatience. Geralt started to reach out to the fingers advancing inside him. Still, Emhyr held him by the hip with his other hand - a kind of imperious gesture, but not without reason. His gaze had become somewhat concentrated, and a moment later, Geralt felt a touch that made him open his eyes wide. Emhyr's narrow smile widened, and he whispered, "You don't know what you've been missing. Hold still."  
His fingers touched Geralt's insides until he closed his eyes and just whimpered, a peculiar, high-pitched sound that could not be suppressed.  
Emhyr pressed him even closer. His mouth grazed Geralt's ear. "What do you think, are you ready?"  
  
There was clearly some amusement in his voice, but Geralt was long past the point of being offended by it. He straightened up, which gave the fingers inside him a whole new angle - an exciting glimpse of the pleasures awaiting him. Now it was up to Geralt to rummage in the pockets of the clothes lying around until he had pulled out the condoms. Emhyr watched him with his usual serene look, a very slight smile on his mouth, his fingers still deep inside him, while Geralt carefully opened a package and began to slip the protection over Emhyr.  
Emhyr accepted the touch with stoic composure, though his voice may have wavered a bit as he said, "And now, once again, much of the same," with a brief nod in the direction of the lube.  
For some reason, his superiority seemed to collide with high sensitivity. Maybe it was because he knew what would happen now. After all, he knew how he would react to the renewed touch of his cock while his own fingers were still inside Geralt.  
  
And Geralt noticed this sensitivity, which he was able to use to his advantage for once. He took his time spreading the moisture of his fingers on Emhyr; rubbing his shaft with almost medical thoroughness, spreading an amount of it precisely and agonizingly slowly on the tip.  
Maybe Emhyr was panting just a tiny little bit when he finally said, "Your turn."  
He withdrew his fingers, and his hands, with slight pressure, signified Geralt to rise a little. But from here on, he no longer needed instruction; the rest - although entirely new and exciting - was intuitive. He lifted his lower body, reached for Emhyr, and with an expression of supreme concentration, he slowly settled down. Emhyr directed him with a very gentle push, and finally, Geralt felt him inside. The sheer sensation made him gasp, and Emhyr let out a triumphant, albeit chopped noise.  
  
The feeling was uncommon, somehow familiar and yet strangely new. It occurred to Geralt that this was the first time he experienced it this way, but he knew exactly how Emhyr felt. What it felt like to move in that tightness, what it was like to look up and see a face whose arousal must mirror his own. However, he had only had the experience with women and couldn't have imagined the feeling. It felt so good; it felt as if he had a special kind of control. Slowly he moved, shifting his body until he found out where the friction was incredibly intense. Now he moved up and down, watching the reaction in the face of the man below him closely. He put his hands on whose shoulders, shifted his weight, and impelled himself. Drops of sweat formed on Emhyr's forehead, but his face showed utmost concentration. Geralt didn't understand at first, but then Emhyr put his hands on his chest and whispered almost inaudibly, "Please."   
What had seemed at first as if he were desperate to maintain control even now was actually quite the opposite. He no longer demanded anything, he asked - for what, exactly? For more, or for relief?  
  
That was now in Geralt's power. His own excitement rose to unimagined heights, and he could only guess how difficult it was for Emhyr to hold back yet. That was the thrill: to take even the very last bit of control from him. There was no cruelty in that, but fulfillment. Geralt leaned forward - _oh_ , he thought, because there it was again, the feeling that Emhyr's fingers had already triggered in him - and closed the other's mouth with a kiss. Their tongues touched, a tender reassurance. Emhyr's hands released from his chest, clawed his shoulders, ran over his back, and clasped his ass, which continued to move up and down. Then Geralt suddenly felt him at his opening, right where they both merged, as if to let his fingers feel what his eyes did not see. This new feeling was almost overwhelming, and he had to surrender to just this sensation for a moment and close his eyes.  
  
When he opened them again, they bore a whole new glow. Once more, he shifted, and now he increased the pace. Leaning forward slightly, his whole body searched for that one, very special feeling, and when Emhyr hit that point, he came without any further touch, loud and fierce. Holding Geralt's shivering body tightly for a moment, it took Emhyr only a few thrusts of his own to follow him.


	21. It may never be this good again

Neither of them spoke for a while, less out of concern to destroy the mood than simply to catch their breath. They were still lying there huddled against each other tightly; Geralt breathed into the crook of Emhyr's neck, and the latter into Geralt's loose hair. He didn't want to move because right now, at that moment, it was as if time stood still. He could still feel Emhyr inside him, and he wanted to capture this instant. It didn't matter at all if they were just ruining a load of hay in a horse stable - he felt utterly light, almost carefree, for the first time in a long time.  
  
At one point, Emhyr muttered, "I'll hold off on making a stupid comment about riding lessons."  
Geralt raised his head and looked at him. His eyes met a glow that he suspected was to be found in his own as well.  
"Because I don't need any?" he boldly inquired.  
This elicited a soft smile from his counterpart.  
"Certainly not," he returned, and the kiss that followed was as soft as his voice as he said abruptly, "I missed that."  
"I missed _you_ ,“ Geralt countered.  
His answer was a little audacious, given they had still not named this kind of relationship, but in any case, it was honest.  
He suspected Emhyr could sense that, and he didn't have to answer. Maybe he didn't quite know how.  
  
"I think," he began slowly, and Geralt shook his head, interrupting him, "You missed me, too."  
Emhyr raised his brows.  
"What makes you think that?"  
"You've been waiting," Geralt said simply.  
"I have been waiting," Emhyr admitted.  
What he didn't say was that he hated waiting, that he had become not only impatient, but rather restless, that he could hardly anticipate this moment to come. He had awaited every Sunday without admitting it to himself. Had looked forward to those days, welcomed them as a pleasant change. The strange attraction he had felt almost from the first moment had only grown stronger and stronger, turning into something new even to him. And Geralt sensed that. Maybe they didn't have to talk about it, didn't have to name it. Maybe it was enough that they both explored it together at the same time.  
They lay there like that for a while longer, until at some point, Emhyr said, "This hay is darned uncomfortable, and the horses still need exercise."  
Geralt looked at him incredulously.  
"You expect me to sit in a saddle after this?"  
"Don't be so sensitive," Emhyr retorted with unaccustomed cheerfulness, playfully slapping a hand on his butt.  
"I thought sensitivity was the point of the whole thing," Geralt grumbled.  
  
The ride took place, and even Geralt had to admit after a while that this cherished habit calmed him down in its own way. Later, Emhyr insisted that he stay for dinner, claiming that he would cook himself, which amazingly turned out to be not only accurate but a real surprise. Not only did the man actually know something about it, but he also cooked well. He seemed to celebrate it as much as anything else in his life; and of course he had the advantage of wealthy people - enough time, enough money for the best equipment, enough knowledge. What he cooked was amazingly simple yet excellent, and Geralt found that he enjoyed it all so much that he actually felt like a normal person for a moment. Not like someone who was always standing out from the crowd because he looked strange; not like someone who had worked hard to put his past behind him and yet was still able to call up the worst of it when necessary. He could forget that he was hiding behind the facade of a reasonable, humble, and down-to-earth veterinarian. This was the person he was now and the person he wanted to be, and here, at this moment and in this company, he could be that. For one evening, he could feel like a person who belonged somewhere, who touched other lives in more than a superficial way.  
  
This mood accompanied him, and Geralt began the new week with a kind of serene composure that did not go unnoticed. Sure, he was always able to be the type of person who didn't let himself get distracted by hectic situations and still kept a cool head - a fact that was extremely helpful when dealing with the owners of his animal patients. But cheerfulness was not usually a trait that others perceived in him. In this new - in many ways new - week, however, his receptionist, Priscilla, suspected he had a secret girlfriend because he had "such a gleam" in his eyes. That was probably nonsense, and Priscilla was a notorious reader of cheap love stories. Still, she wasn't the only one who noticed something. One evening, he stopped by the pharmacy shortly after closing time - it was on his way, and he had arranged with the owner some time ago that he could just drop his orders for the following day in the mailbox to save time.  
  
The pharmacy was already closed, but his friend Emiel, the apothecary, heard the mail slot's rattling and came to the door just as Geralt turned away. The always friendly, narrow face of the older man with the somewhat old-fashioned sideburns appeared at the window. Geralt nodded at him and gestured that he had just put in an order. The pharmacist quickly unlocked the door, only to say abruptly, "Geralt! Is something wrong?"  
"No, just my usual order," Geralt replied in confusion, "the Metronidazole was used up faster than I expected."  
"Ah yes, of course, you can pick up tomorrow morning. I just thought... you look different somehow."  
"You're the second person to say that," Geralt replied, feeling as if his face betrayed him somehow. "I'm not sick or anything."  
"No," the other replied with a fine smile that highlighted narrow wrinkles around his eyes, "it doesn't seem that way to me, either. Listen, I know you're not a fan of my homebrew, but I've tried something new, and all you have to do is sip it. Your opinion would actually be important to me. "  
  
This was so transparent that Geralt almost had to laugh. In fact, though, he found it kind of touching. In all his years in this town, he had always tried to maintain a kind of deferential distance from the residents - he wanted to earn their respect, not their friendship. With Emiel, it had been different. He seemed completely unimpressed by his feigned professional indifference. The pharmacist was considered by many in the city to be an oddball, which made him a perfect choice for a friend. It wasn't just his exotic interest in bats, for which he could often be found at dizzying heights, installing nesting boxes for the animals in places he considered _exorbitantly important_. Another of his hobbies was brewing horrible herbal brandies. Geralt, who usually held back on alcohol anyway, usually only tried them out of politeness - and because he had figured out at some point that the invitations were a pretext for conversation.  
  
So this time, too, he agreed and followed the pharmacist to his apartment directly above the pharmacy. The pervasive smell of some wild herb lay over everything, and a little later Geralt found himself sitting in an armchair, a shot glass in his hand, confronted with the request to "take a hearty swig". He didn't really want to, but he figured if he already had a tendency to act contrary to his habits lately, he could still do this. Surprisingly, it didn't taste as bad as he expected.  
"You're making progress," he said, not very diplomatically, but honestly. His friend laughed, sat down opposite him, and offered a toast. For a while, they chatted about innocuous things until Emiel casually asked, "What have you been up to lately?"  
  
Geralt placed his glass on a small table in front of him.  
"What makes you think I've _experienced_ anything?"  
The other's grin widened. He laid his fingertips together, putting on a thoughtful face, a blatant but amusing imitation of a certain TV detective.  
"Well, you must have experienced _something_ ,“ he said, "even if we disregard freshly born cows and dogs with ingrown toenails..."  
"More like boils," Geralt interjected, wondering if he'd already had one too many. The other waved the remark aside with a casual gesture.  
"If something hadn't happened, you would have answered with your typical _'Nothing at all, the usual,’_ my dear," the pharmacist continued.  
"I would have said _my dear_?“  
"No, that's what I say, don't deflect. Something's different, you're radiating something.... a love affair, perhaps?"  
Geralt almost choked on his helping of liquor - how many had he had in the meantime? - and wondered if there was really anything to it. Did he seem different? _Was_ he different? And was it so obvious?  
"Is that good or bad?" he asked. The other looked at him in surprise.  
"You're asking me if doing something for your love life could be _bad_?"  
  
That was not actually what Geralt had meant, but neither could nor would he express the true meaning of his question. There was so much more in it: admitting to himself that he might be developing feelings. To think about it at all. Possibly that was dangerous. Sex was only one possible form of intimacy, but real feelings required a completely different way of opening up. But opening up meant admissions that repelled people rather than attracted them - at least that was his experience.  
"I don't know yet," he answered evasively. "In any case, it's good the way it is."  
That could really mean anything, and his friend seemed to suspect that - for now - he wouldn't say any more about it.  
"Well," the other replied, as he poured again, "I'll figure it out, my friend. Maybe I'll check your recipes a little more closely in the near future."  
"What do my recipes have to do with it?"  
"Maybe a patient's prescriptions will pile up soon?"  
This actually made Geralt laugh.


	22. Baby, just like fire to gasoline

When he went home that night, not only did he feel slightly drunk, but he also had the strange feeling that he had somehow, finally, belonged at this place. There were people here who meant something to him, one perhaps more than all the others. Something was changing, and maybe that kind of change was right.  
But the pleasant feeling in his stomach, which was only partly due to the alcohol, disappeared instantly when he spotted a car parked in his driveway. It was an inconspicuous rental car, registered in another state. When he noticed who was behind the wheel, the feeling in his stomach unmistakably turned into that of having taken a hit.  
The driver's door opened, and Yennefer got out.  
Geralt's mind raced. This could not be good. The sight of her made him instantly uneasy. He realized that he owed her quite a bit, and for a moment, he wondered if she would now insist that he payed back. Then he thought that her appearance must have something to do with Lambert, which only tightened the knot in the pit of his stomach.  
  
He was utterly wrong.  
  
Yennefer appeared nervous. She almost hissed at him, "Why are you so late?"  
"I wasn't expecting you," he replied with more composure than he felt.  
"I didn't expect to come back to this shithole either," she said sharply. "Let's go inside. I have something important to tell you."  
Already she was turning toward the front door, waiting impatiently, while he searched for his key.  
"Is it about Lambert? Is he in trouble again? Listen, I don't really want anything to do with that..."  
Yennefer, still unusually restless, pushed the door open as soon as the key had turned and almost hurried inside.  
"Lambert?" she asked erratically. "I don't really care what he does; I don't expect to hear from him again."  
  
It was dark in the house, and Geralt groped for the light switch. The sudden brightness made Yennefer blink, and now he noticed that she looked unusually pale. She had started pacing up and down the room.  
"Then what is it?" he asked, troubled not only by her unexpected appearance but also by her unnatural display of nervousness.  
Yennefer turned to him, looking thoughtfully.  
"You remember that client of mine I was here for? The one who is apparently also one of your customers?"  
Geralt's uneasy feeling intensified.  
"Of course," he replied cautiously.  
She nodded and continued, "What I'm about to tell you is strictly confidential. It's completely against my principles for me to talk to you about it, and if even one of my competitors gets a whiff of it, I'm screwed."  
Geralt found it strange that her reputation in the industry seemed to be more important to her than the fact that she was apparently on the verge of confiding some sort of secret to him. But his ex-wife was already hastily continuing to speak.  
"This man had a daughter," she began, "and it is generally believed that she perished with her mother in a shipwreck."  
"I know that," Geralt interjected. Yennefer gave him a sharp look. But her inner turmoil was so unusually great that she did not even question how he knew this detail about a man with whom he officially had no more to do than take care of his horse.  
  
"All right," Yennefer continued. "But I don't suppose you know that he hired me to do some research on this disaster."  
Geralt frowned.  
"That was probably several years ago, so you'd think there would have been an investigation by then."  
"Don't interrupt me!" she said sharply. "Of course, the matter has been investigated. It's been almost 17 years, and the methods have changed, Geralt. His daughter's body was never found, so he never really got any closure. Why he's investigating behind the story again now, after all this time, I don't know."  
Geralt suspected what had driven this impulse, although he didn't really see through why exactly his appearance could have triggered Emhyr's sudden resort to these means.  
He was careful not to tell Yennefer any of this.  
  
"I reopened the whole thing, talked to the cops from back then, requested old files, the usual. Basically, it's routine," Yennefer continued, her hand restlessly stroking the furniture as if looking for something to hold on to.  
"Actually, there was nothing unusual about it either. The sea devours its victims; that's how one of the cops who were on the case at the time put it. But he was also the one who gave me a crucial clue. The current conditions, he said. If the current conditions had been taken into account at the time, they might have been able to narrow down the search area better. At first, I didn't understand what he meant, but later I found out that they were only looking for the child in a certain area based on certain assumptions. You can't just search the whole ocean; you have to narrow down the area. But no one took into account the actual flow."  
  
"Why not?" asked Geralt in confusion, still clueless as to where this whole thing was going.  
She shrugged her shoulders.  
"It's elaborate and expensive, and for some reason, no one has considered it. The irony of the story is, he might have had the means and the money to clear it up back then. Everything would have been completely different, Geralt. Absolutely everything."  
Now she was standing right in front of him, looking at him, and her eyes were shimmering strangely. Neither nostalgia nor sentimentality was among Yennefer's characteristics, so what was going on?  
"So you found something out," he said. "What do I have to do with it?"  
Her ensuing laugh sounded bitter, and the feeling in the pit of his stomach grew worse.  
"I hired an expert. Var Emreis can afford it, and it's not bad for my expense account. Well, the man looked at the whole thing, taking into account the current conditions at the time. Long story short, you won't believe how far you can get drifted on the open sea. It's a miracle the kid survived at all, but he said it was entirely possible. Maybe someone still had time to put a life jacket on her; maybe she just had a guardian angel. The fact is, I believe she survived."  
"What?" exclaimed Geralt, "But that's great news, isn't it?"  
  
Now she was wringing her hands, looking at him almost desperately. He had never seen her like this before.  
"You don't understand," she said softly. "I have reason to believe that the child everyone thought dead has been found. Very far away and unable to speak out because she was too small. I think she washed up on a beach far, far away, in the middle of the night, and the tough little thing didn't stop to cry or fall asleep exhausted, no, not her."  
Something inside Geralt began to tingle uncomfortably. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears and wanted nothing more than for Yennefer to stop talking, but she didn't.  
"She must have been bewildered, but now she had solid ground under her feet. She was wet to the bone, but it was a damn hot summer. Even at night, it hardly cooled down. They call it tropical nights, you know? She just ran, and by the time she reached the city, she was almost dry."  
"Yennefer," he began as if he could stop her, or stop what she was about to say and he didn't want to hear.  
  
"That's how I figure it," she continued. "That's the way it might have been. Geralt, I think it's Anna. I think var Emreis' child is not dead, it's alive, and it's _our daughter_."


End file.
